


Black and White

by shuns



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Knight and Day (2010)
Genre: Alice Springs is not for lovers, Amnesia, And I mean loosely, And a particularly amorous ferret, But Uluru is for fighting, But it is not in Spain, Dark Hermione Granger, Explosions, F/M, HEA, Harmesia, Harmony at the Movies: A Film Fest, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, I promise, Just Desserts, Kathmandu is, Loosely based on 'Knight and Day' (2010), Strangers in the Rain, Strangers on a plane, Strangers on the plain, Temporary Amnesia, strangers on a train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 00:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20518928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuns/pseuds/shuns
Summary: When messy-haired, green-eyed Evans Black, the S is silent, met the mysterious but scary curly-haired brunette Jean White on the Melbourne bound airplane, she seemed familiar. Perhaps, his mind playing tricks on him againThanks Amnesia.Between her emotional support ferret,MurderKill List of enemies, and magicchopstickwand, she has turned his boring life upside down. Jean has secrets, Evan has questions, the ferret has answers, but nothing is as simple asBlack and White.





	1. Cinder

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [HarmonyAtTheMovies](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HarmonyAtTheMovies) collection. 

> My thanks to HeartSandwich, the best of betas and A Warden, the acme of alphas. 
> 
> Disclaimer: the recognizable characters in this story do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.Rowling and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. A/N: And if I did own them, that Epilogue would be the first thing to go.
> 
> **Prompt:**  
Knight and Day (2010)

A wand was on the table.

It was made of reddish wood - long - eleven inches with a hairline crack in the center where it had been mended. Wands can’t be repaired, but this one had. 

The pale wood of the table underneath made the wand stand out. It had scrapes and gouges one would expect for a table, well used and washed down often — a good table for a hospital. The small window showed a dark sky, and the light was dim in the tidy, bland sick room. A man was resting in a dull grey metal bed made up with white sheets in the center of the room. A woman with brown hair that curled almost audibly, freckled tan skin, and tightly clenched lips sat in a hard wooden chair next to the bed. She watched the man in the bed as his chest rose and fell, shallowly. His black hair was a thick, matted mess that had left faint red stains on the pillow. His face covered in purple bruises, and his skin had an unhealthy grey pallor to it. He was sweating; she didn’t need to feel his brow to know it was clammy. 

A pair of gold, round-framed glasses lay next to the wand. One lens was missing, and the other was shattered and would fall out if jostled slightly. 

The woman reached into her sleeve and pulled out a wand. She waved it over him and scowled when the man’s body glowed faintly; he was frail. A hitch in the rise and fall of his breathing drew her attention. The woman sat up and moved forward, grabbing the hand closest to her; his steady breathing resumed. She didn’t let go of his hand. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I don’t know if I would have made a difference. Being left behind - this is worse.”

_ Her recent breakup had made things awkward with her former boyfriend's family; it wasn’t right to lead him on. _ _She had developed feelings for her best friend and was finally about to act on it when he announced his engagement. She was happy for him, sad for herself. I__nvestigating the recent breakout from Azkaban was an excellent excuse to stay away. She told the boys to take a night off and enjoy the party, while she buried herself in reported sightings, hoping for a pattern to emerge. When the stag Patronus burst through the wall, she was up and running before she heard the message, ‘Attack at the Burrow, send everyone.’ She had torn out of her office, shouting for help. _

_ They apparated to the other side of the hill. She could already see smoke curling toward the sky in large, sooty columns. Then the acrid smell of burnt meat and ozone from clashing magic hit her. She raced toward the crest of the hill. At the top, she gasped taking in the burning hellscape that had once been the pleasant front garden. It was now a smoking crater, evidence of an explosion. She heard the zings of spells slung and countered as well as the few screams of the dying. It had been a family party celebrating the engagement of their only daughter. The table that would have held the food overturned. Someone had tried to use it as cover, but it hadn’t worked, as the blown apart pieces could attest. She saw a pair of legs unmoving behind it. _

_ She launched herself toward the nearest knot of black robes, shrieking like a berserker. She dodged and jumped, firing off _bombardas_, _stupefies,_ even a few _sectumsempras_. Years ago she had worked out a way to chain a shield charm to an offensive spell so she could cast offensively while still protected defensively. As she drew closer to the group in black, about forty by her count, they began to apparate away. She would have set anti-apparition wards, had she been thinking clearly, but she had been too caught up in getting to her friends. _

_ The pops and cracks of apparition continued until there was only one person left. He rounded on her and smiled. He wasn’t hiding behind a mask today, his once handsome face a ruin from his time in Azkaban and Godic only knew where else since the Battle when his crazy wife had met her end. “She’s all yours, what’s left of her.” With a harsh laugh, he disappeared with a crack. _

_ An older, plump woman with brown eyes and greying hair was struggling to breathe, “-made me watch. Watch as they killed them all. All of them. He cast a spell so I couldn’t close my eyes -” _

_ She rushed toward the older witch, but some perverse ward stopped her. She could only watch as the woman bled out, weakening before her eyes. “Molly, I’m here. You are going to be okay. Just hang on.” _

_ Roused from her musings the older woman looked up, “Oh good dear, you came after all. We’ve missed you. Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess just now, I think George must have set off one of his firecrackers.” The young woman swallowed a sob; she was quite sure that she had seen him, only with half his head missing. “Why don’t you call in the children from the orchard so we can tuck in.” With that, the older witch breathed her last and slumped over. _

_ Later, as they were categorizing the dead, a cry went up. One of the Aurors found a survivor. She rushed over, not sure who she was hoping for: her best friend, her ex, or the bride-to-be? She wept at the scene she found: brother and sister were holding each other, the parts that hadn’t been blown apart. Their sacrifice had saved her best friend, who was barely breathing but alive. _

They had told her that he was fading. He was a whisper from death. The Healer said it was the worst case of magic depletion he had ever seen. _ If_ he recovered, his magic would be gone forever, little better than a squib. He hadn’t responded to any of the treatments the Healers had tried; he remained in a coma, unresponsive. His body was rejecting magic. After what had happened, she could understand.

She picked the wand up off the table. Breaking a wand was a ritual act done only when a witch or wizard died or left the Wizarding World to live as a mundane. She wouldn’t break it; this wand had seen and done too much. She twirled her wand around it, visualizing the transfiguration. It was slow work with her wand. It wanted more violent tasks. Finally, his wand melted into a metal bracelet with a flat plaque with his name and condition on it. She whispered another incantation over the bracelet. Then she fastened it around his wrist, sealing the open link shut with his name. A wizard should never be without his wand, even if he can’t use it. 

She opened the bag slung across her chest and reached inside until she found a parchment and quill. She dug deeper and pulled out a small vial of sparkling black liquid and set it on the nightstand. Her quill scratched across the parchment, and she paused a few times to read over what she had written then she pricked her finger to make a bloody thumbprint. She passed her wand over the parchment while murmuring the incantation and the blood soaked into the paper leaving only the pale sheet. She leaned closer, and the magic practically jumped off the page; blood really did augment the compulsion. She folded the letter to drop it in the post soon. Time was of the essence, and it had far to go.

She took the vial and stood over the man. Her friend. Her _best _friend. The only family she had left. This was mercy. It was a hard decision, but that is what she did, she made the hard decisions. It’s not like she hadn’t done this before, but it didn’t make it any easier; saying goodbye to someone you love is always hard. She did love him. For eight years she had stood beside him, but there was never time for them with the trolls to fight and dark lords to defeat. Now it would never be. She carefully dripped the sparkling liquid into his mouth, lifting his head so it trickled down his throat, and the reaction was immediate. He thrashed for a few moments then stilled, his chest rising once more, stopping after a soft exhale. 

It wasn’t hard summoning tears. 

The door burst open, and the Healer and Mediwitch on night duty filled the room with activity. They were good people, but it was the end of the shift, she was counting on them not noticing things, caught up in trying to save their charge. The girl watched as they worked frantically around the man in the bed, but it was too late. Harry Potter was gone. 

She had made sure of it. 

* * *

She folded the newspaper and put it down. A large picture on the front page showed Hermione Jean Granger clothed in black standing between two coffins, she reached out and touched one then the other. Head bowed, her body shook with sobs before the loop started again. Some editorial prat had included a small inset picture that showed the three friends — Ron on the left, Hermione in the center, and Harry on the right — making the macabre point that this was how they started and how they ended. Toward the bottom of the page, another picture showed a distraught Fleur Weasley clutching Victoire; had it not been for a runaway fever, she and the little one would have been among the dead. 

Inside the paper, articles were calling for justice and inquiry into the “Bloodbath at the Burrow." The Ministry’s measured response, “We are investigating, this will take time to resolve,” satisfied no one. 

She wondered if vigilantism was just a reaction to circumstances or if she had she been on this path from the beginning.

She'd set a teacher on fire. Helped a convict escape. Permanently disfigured a schoolmate. Sent a woman into the forest to be trampled to death. Altered her parents' memories. Robbed a bank. Fought and killed in a war. She had done it all under the auspices of the_ Greater Good. _

Was this part of the _ Greater Good_, too? Did it matter anymore?

She wrestled with this question as she sat through the interminable inquests and reviews resulting from the attack. It didn’t take long to realize there was a hush-up, there would be no justice, considering who was on the panel she wasn’t surprised. She wondered who Umbridge had imperiused to have a job in the Ministry still. She began her preparations then, hoping she was wrong. When she sat across from the Minister, and he wouldn’t meet her eye, she knew what she needed to do. Causing a scene in the Ministry was easy; it was a pleasure to punch Inspector Umbridge in the mouth. 

Hermione Jean Granger retreated from the public spotlight for ‘time to heal.'

That was a lie; she needed time to kill. 

Making new magic is a bit scary. The Fidelis charm for ‘secret keeping’ is meant for places, not people or things. She had already experimented with things, people were much different, though, and with magic anything is possible. In theory, self-obliviation is possible, but in practice, one does not want to end up like Gilderoy Lockheart. She started with something small. She made the sobriquet ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’ a secret. It was a delight to read the _ Prophet_ without that particular phrase. Then in her next interview, her last, where she shared her thoughts on the Ministry’s failure to act, she watched the reporter struggle with what to call her. When she wrote the phrase out for the intrepid interviewer, it was like watching the light dawn. The next day’s _ Prophet_’s headline read _"'Brightest Witch’ casts shadow of doubt on Ministry." _A nice turn of phrase. 

She looked down at the small, red booklet with gold writing, a passport, with the name Jean White on the first page. White had been her mother’s maiden name, Jean, because she wanted to keep something of herself. Next to it was a sheet of parchment with ‘Kill List’ written neatly across the top and forty names of the alleged neo-Death Eaters and escaped Death Eaters there; Dolores Umbridge was at the top of the list followed by Rodolphus Lestrange. There was a black credit card, the newest innovation from Gringott’s that would convert her gold into Muggle currency. Next to the card was an airplane ticket, because portkeys made her sick and the people she was going to kill wouldn’t expect her to use Muggle travel. Of course, if the enchantment worked, they wouldn’t expect her at all.

She picked up the small, well-worn beaded bag and began packing: a tent, a portable potions lab that folded itself into a tidy wooden box, a roll of knives in all shapes and sizes, a pair of manacles, grenades, a beautiful cloak that looked like a starry night, and a broom with the word Firebolt on the side of the handle. She added the passport, credit card, and ‘Kill List,’ but left the airplane ticket. The bag made a satisfying_ clunk _when it set on the table.

She sat down at the table; she knew from experience that creating an enchantment this far-reaching and complicated would knock her legs out from under her, no need to sprawl on the floor if she could help it. She reached into her bag and drew out a scrap of parchment, an inkpot, and a quill, and jotted down the short phrase. She traced a spikey C — the rune for Pertho, secrets — on her body at the four cardinal points, then did the same on a scrap of paper. The outflow of magic from her body was shocking. 

She awoke face down on a table a minute, or maybe hours, later, exhausted and confused. She sat up and found a small slip of paper. _No not paper, parchment._

_ Hermione Jean Granger is Jean White_.

She shook her head as her thoughts clicked back into place, then stood, wobbled a bit, and gathered her bag and the ticket. Her secret was safe, and she had a plane to catch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irate Reader: WHAT? How could you? How could you have Hermione _kill_ Harry? Did you not understand this is a _Harmony_ Fest?
> 
> The Jerk Author: Are you sure she killed him?
> 
> Irate Reader: He thrashed and stilled - there were coffins. Yes, I'm quite sure.
> 
> The Jerk Author: (nodding) Mmm-hmm, but did you _see_ the body? You read the tags, right?
> 
> The Somewhat Less Irate Reader: (Reads the tags again) HEA? _Happily Ever After?!?!_ How are you going to do that?
> 
> The Jerk Author: Well, obviously with _magic,_ but there are four more chapters to go. Read them - if you are still mad at me when you get to the end you can yell at me in the comments section.
> 
> The Somewhat Less Irate but Now Skeptical Reader: (cracks knuckles) You're on.


	2. Jet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stand by for tone shift in 3... 2...1

Evan Black struggled through the terminal’s corridor with his bulky package. He bashed his head when entering the airport’s revolving door. He smacked his nose, seeing stars when he went through security. He smashed his toe when he stopped to use the toilet. It was the cherry on top of the worst holiday ever. He was the unluckiest bloke in the world. 

The only reason he hadn’t abandoned the 1973 Ford Falcon XB GT bumper was that he loved Uncle Wendy and this was the _perfect _birthday present. He would go mental when he saw the pristine chrome without a speck of rust. Aunt Moony was willing to spring for the extra seat to ensure it would arrive undamaged on the trip home. It was the highlight of a disastrous week-long holiday spent with his now _ex-girlfriend_, Winnie, in Northern Australia at Alice Springs. They were taking separate planes back or would do if Evan could move his flight up. Only he could go away on a romantic holiday and lose his girlfriend but find a car part intent on doing him bodily injury.

His phone buzzed. “Hi, Uncle Wendy. I’ll be home around three instead of eight. I’m taking an earlier flight… No, I’ll make my own way home… _ Really_, it’s fine. I miss you too. I have to go. I’m at the ticket counter... Yeah, love you too.” Evan mumbled the last exchange. He did love Uncle Wendy and Aunt Moony. Wendell and Monica Wilkins had stepped in after Mum and Dad died in an accident. He wasn’t sure how he could have recovered from his injuries without them. They had been there for him when no one else had, doting on him like their own son. He was lucky to have such a loving aunt and uncle; they must have been great parents. It was such a tragedy they had lost their little girl when she was just eleven. He vaguely remembered a bossy girl with curly hair, but all his memories before the accident were a hazy jumble. 

They had been dentists in England before they decided to move somewhere sunny and warm. Between selling their practice and a small lottery win when Evan had come to live with them, Uncle Wendell was finally able to open the small car repair shop he had always wanted. He restored cars, mainly customized muscle ones, with the same attention and aplomb he addressed an extreme overbite. Aunt Moony did the bookkeeping for the shop and took care of Evan. 

When they came to fetch him after the accident in England, he was a mess. He had woken to a small, fierce woman giving a nurse the business. He felt bad for the nurse and only managed to choke out, “Stop,” but it worked, because the woman he would come to know as Aunt Moony, his godmother, turned to him and crushed him in a hug. He could hardly put a sentence together. He needed so much care and therapy, five years to be exact, to relearn everything. Even now his body felt empty like it was missing something, less than it should be. Aunt Moony would fuss and tell him to snap out of it, followed by decaffeinated green tea and a hug that smashed the breath out of him. He wasn't sure how they received the letter informing them of his injury, but he was thankful for it every day. 

His musings carried him to the end of the concourse with his new voucher for the earlier flight. Limping the last bit, he threw himself down into an uncomfortable chair. He knew he was tired because out of the corner eye, he was sure he saw someone _just there_. It happened from time to time. His neurologist said it was his brain compensating for the damage from the accident, no need for alarm. His psychiatrist said he just needed to remind himself it wasn’t real; it would pass. Aunt Moony told him to breathe in for five beats then out for six, and to imagine healing magic flowing through him. Then she would give him sugar-free vegan biscuits. They were awful, but he ate them; her baking was only slightly better than her cooking, and she was a terrible cook. She made an effort for him, and he would make it for her. Besides, he knew where Uncle Wendy kept his secret stash of Tim Tams. 

He breathed in and out then opened his eyes. Sitting across from him was a woman. _ Where had she come from? _ She had short, brown hair. Her curls bounced as she moved her head, jostling to frame her small, delicate face like a nimbus. Odd word that _nimbus, _ he wasn’t sure where he had dug that word up from. She was wearing boots, jeans, and a long sleeve jacket, even though it was hot as blazes outside. He was surprised she wasn’t sweating, the air con in the airport wasn’t that good. Something about her face seemed so familiar; it was tan, with a thin nose and full pink lips. But her eyes. They were big and brown, and he was falling into them - he needed to look away. He had been staring, rudely. 

“Is there something on my face?” she asked.

“Oh, no - No! I’m sorry. Do I know you? I get the feeling we’ve met before.” Every time he looked at her he couldn’t help but think of his aunt and uncle; her eyes were the same color as Uncle Wendy’s and her hair curled just like Aunt Moony’s on days when she didn’t straighten it. She could have been their daughter. He plucked up his courage and asked, “ Are you flying to Melbourne too?”

She smiled and fidgeted with the zipper on a small gray bag. “Yes, I hear it’s lovely.”

Evan snorted. It was better than Alice Springs; anything was better than Alice Springs because Winnie was still there. “Perhaps we’ll be seatmates.”

She smiled, and Evan felt his heart swoop and dive toward his shoes. He was in freefall. Things like this didn’t happen to boring Evan Black. He didn’t chat up pretty girls, and they most certainly didn’t smile back at him. Then again, she knew nothing about his accident, his amnesia, his struggle to remember anything of his former life in England. “I’m in seat 15C and D.” He nodded toward the large package.

“Seat 4A. Sorry.”

He looked around the lounge. There was almost no one there. Correction, there _was _no one there, just the two of them and an air hostess. If the plane was empty, perhaps he could sit next to her, it was worth asking. “Maybe I can do something about that.” He stood and walked toward the counter, reminding himself to be bold like a lion. He smiled at the hostess, “Are there any open seats in Row 4?” 

“That’s first-class, and the plane is overbooked as it is. Are you Evans Black?” He nodded. “I was just going to page you; we would like to move you the next flight leaving in two hours.”

Winnie would be on that plane. “The S is silent. Just Evan. Why would you bump me? I was able to move my flight not fifteen minutes ago. How could it get overbooked so quickly?” He glared at the hostess. Then he noticed her eyes were wrong; they had a silvery sheen. He had thought it might be cataracts, but cataracts didn’t swirl. It was weird and a bit creepy. “Besides, no one is here.”

She continued as if he said nothing, “You will get first-class on the later flight and a voucher for a free flight anywhere in Australia. Give me your ticket, and I’ll reprint your voucher.” She held out her hand for his ticket.

Evan almost handed it over, then he paused. No. Today he was going to stop people from walking all over him. That Evan Black could stay here in Alice Springs with Winnie. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll keep my ticket and get on this flight. I want to see all these passengers.”

Tense now, he took a seat near the door to the jetway. The air hostess opened it and checked in the young woman. She waved at him brightly then disappeared down the corridor. The air hostess never called his row. He was just about to complain to her again when she called “Evans Black.” 

“Here. And it's Evan, just Evan.”

“My apologies, the computer was incorrect. You can board now if you would like.” Her silver eyes watched him as he wrangled the bulky bumper on in front of him and walked quickly down the jetway before she changed her mind.

Once aboard the plane, he walked past the young woman. “I guess today was my lucky day.”

She looked at him and said matter-of-factly, “I make my luck. I brew it in batches.”

After he found his seat, he noticed four other men get on and sit around the woman in 4A; perhaps that was what all the fuss was about. The flight took off without further delay. When the fasten seatbelt sign was switched off, he stood intent on going to talk to the young woman and at least learn her name. As he moved forward, he realized she was coming back. Toward him. She was slender, neither tall or short, and had a small beaded bag and a larger gray bag strapped across her. She moved slowly, like a predator stalking her prey, _ like a lioness _his brain supplied. The four men watched her progress.

“Oh, hello. Care to join me for a drink?” She waved two mini bottles of vodka at him. 

Evan smiled at her. “It just so happens I have some orange juice. Cocktails?”

She sat in an open seat across the aisle from him, and they talked about everything and nothing. Her name was Jean White. He introduced himself, "Evans Black, the S is silent." She laughed at that. He explained it was his mother's maiden name. Jean had been all over the world. He had only been to England and Australia; he left out the part where he didn’t remember England due to the accident. He learned the gray bag contained an emotional support ferret. He tried very hard to keep his face neutral and not laugh at her. She could hold her liquor. Evan had tried to match her drink-for-drink, but now he was feeling a bit drunk. 

He excused himself to the toilet. The door shut and he felt the creeping claustrophobia begin to claw its way forward. He didn’t know why he hated small spaces. He just did, vehemently. He grabbed the counter and shut his eyes, pushing the gnawing fears down, he could open the door and leave any time he wanted, the lock was on his side. His breathing slowed, and the feeling receded. He opened his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror. He was in a black t-shirt, jeans, and trainers. It wasn’t his best look, but it would have to do. 

There was a thump, and the door rattled, “Occupied,” shouted Evan. He splashed some water on his hands then ran them through his hair. It was a slight improvement; Aunt Moony would tut disapprovingly, telling him only magic would make his hair behave. He heard a distant thump, and something was burning. He hoped this meant the air hostess would stop by with a snack. He needed something to sop up the alcohol. 

He looked in the mirror. He could do this. She was nice. She had come back to sit with him. She smiled and even laughed at his jokes. His friend Donald had said that’s how you knew a girl was interested. He was going to go out there and ask her if she would like to grab some dinner when they arrived in Melbourne. Resolved with his plan, he reached for the door. It banged open when the airplane lurched sharply to the right. 

Jean was still sitting on the hand rest of her seat looking at him. He stumbled back toward her, holding the backs of the empty seats as the plane dipped and rose wildly. She held out a plastic cup to him, the contents sloshed but by some magic never spilled out. “I’d better not, Jean, I’ve already had too much. Listen, I have something I want to ask you before I lose my nerve.”

“Evan -”

“No, let me finish. I like you a lot. I know we just met, and well, I don’t know if it’s the vodka or the air pressure, but I would like to eat you. _ Oh, God._ No, not that. Eat _with _you. Dinner - yes. Eat dinner with you, when we land, of course.” Evan was terrible at chatting up girls. He had only ended up with Winnie because she was Donald’s little sister. The plane shimmied, Jean fell toward him, and he caught her. She was warm, soft, and solid. Without thinking, he did the thing that he wanted to do the most and pressed his lips against hers. He tasted the orange juice and smelled flowers from her shampoo. 

She held her body stiffly, all elbows in awkward places and hands against his chest. He waited for her to push him away and slap him. He shouldn’t have taken liberties. All at once, she sagged into him, surrendering into the kiss with a sigh. She trailed the tip of her tongue along his lower lip, teasing his tongue with hers beckoning him to come play. He let his hand move up her spine and ribs. Her hand found its way into his hair as he kissed back, stroking his tongue against hers. 

She broke the kiss with a small nip on his lower lip and stepped away. “Evan, that was lovely, but we need to leave. They’re after me, and now they’ll think you’re with me and that won’t go well for you.”

Evan‘s head was spinning from the kiss. “What? Who? Leave? Jean we are mid-air, we can’t just leave.”

She waved a hand, dismissively, “Of course we can. Drink this. It will help with everything.” 

She handed him the remarkable cup that was still full almost to the brim. Evan decided to play along; he drained it with a gulp. It tasted of citrus with a bite at the end like the wheatgrass shots that Aunt Moony insisted he drink. “Oh, this is good. It doesn’t have tequila in it. Tequila makes my clothes fall off.” He winked.

She snorted, “Not tequila, I’m afraid clothes stay on. There was a bit of a fight while you were in the toilet. I think the Ministry or Lestrange sent them; either way, I took care of them.”

“Right,” said Evan. Separately her words made sense, but the way she strung them together, he wasn’t sure what meaning he should take from them. “When you say took care of them, you mean...”

She looked at him and rolled her eyes, “They’re dead. I couldn’t take the risk they connect you and I. You are too important to me.”

"You're joking."

She gave him a look and gestured to where the men were sitting. 

As the pitched to the left, there was a thunk, and he looked a few rows ahead of him. One of the men had fallen out of his seat, his posture unchanged. Evan stood to assist him, then realized he was quite dead, and his calm began to erode.

“What?!? You murdered them?” Fear washed over him, and he started edging away from the suddenly scary woman.

"As I said, there was a fight if it helps they attacked first."

It did not help. 

Then, Evan, had the strangest feeling come over him, starting from his toes and working its way up. He felt like he was floating; his thoughts were floating, too. Things looked pinker. He wanted to be worried, but what was the point? The calm enveloped him. “You said I was important. Why am I important?” His words bubbled out of his mouth, he caught one, and it popped, wetly, against his hand. 

“You remind me of a very good friend that I lost a few years ago.” At that point the plane hit another patch of turbulence; he felt like the captain ought to have turned on the ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign. Or perhaps not. He didn’t know about the decisions an airline captain should or should not take. _ Oh look, that bit of ground seems very comfortable, _ he sat down. 

“E-van, Please take my arm. It’s time to go.” She gathered up her gray bag and his bumper.

The plane lurched again. Evan concentrated hard on what he wanted to say, “Jean, I don’t want to go anywhere not with you. First, We are on a plane. Second, I don’t want you to kill me like you did to these men. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

She snorted. “I’m not going to kill you.” He scoffed. “No for real. You’re the only one on this plane who hasn’t tried to kill me, well you and the pilots, I petrified the pilot and co-pilot in case they were _imperiused_. This plane will probably crash, but if you want to go down with them, be my guest?”

Evan thought about it; he didn’t want to be in a plane crash today or any other day. “Crash? Could we land the plane, then get off?“

She gave him a look, “I don’t know how to fly a jet. If you do, go ahead and land it.”

“Sure, how hard can it be to fly an airplane?” The answer, of course, is very hard. Evan staggered to the cockpit and was immediately overwhelmed by the many buttons and dials. Calm truly damaged, he made the mistake of looking at the pilot staring glassily forward. He touched his cheek, “He’s hard as stone?”

Jean huffed, “I told you they are petrified. Living stone.”

“They’re still alive? Brilliant, can you fix them? Then they could fly the plane? Or we could take them with us?”

Jean rolled her eyes, “I have no time for you to be a hero. I’m not a bloody portkey. Evan, what _are_ you doing?”

Evan unstrapped the pilot then co-pilot wrestled them forward, propping them against the wall. “We are taking them with us to the pork-ey.”

“Ev-an. It’s a portkey. Fine but if we take them will you go with me?" He nodded. She groused, "I haven’t done this many in a side-along in a while. It’s going to hurt. Link their arms around yours. And I'll wedge the bumper here, and you might as well take the ferret carrier." She looped the strap around his neck, pulled a long chopstick out of her sleeve, then wrapped her arms around his waist. It was nice. "Do you trust me?” 

He blinked and looked down at her, “No, not at all.”

“Good, No more talking, I need to concentrate. I’m not familiar with the countryside, and I don’t want anyone to end up splinched.”

Evan wasn’t sure about splinching. It sounded painful. He felt her twist, and then his brain was pulled out his right nostril. He spilled onto the ground on all fours, a convenient position to vomit up the entire contents of his stomach. 

He dropped the bumper and the bag when he fell. A corner of the bad unzipped, the pink nose pushed it open. Then a white streak erupted from the bag, chirping and crawling all over him. Evan moaned. The animal coiled around his neck and dug its little claws into his ear. “Ugh, go away.” The ferret was rubbing itself against his cheek. 

Jean stood over him. “He likes you. I will warn you; he is a particularly amorous ferret.” Currently, the chittering animal was trying to burrow into his shirt. He felt a bit ferret-handled. _ Is that a thing? _ Usually, Evan didn’t like small animals, especially rats, and he was quite sure he hated this one. He rolled over on this back, hoping to crush the annoying thing. He saw the pilot and co-pilot were some distance away, unmoving. 

The ferret squirmed out from under him and chattered noisily before it scurried off into the grass. 

“Oh dear, I think you upset him. He takes a bit of getting used to, the arrogant little shit. Stay here. I have to find him because, of course, he is the key to this whole thing, if he ever stops talking about bloody biscuits.” She yelled at the ferret bounced in the dry grass, “Get back here before one of the many ways Australia can kill you, does!” She patted Evan on the head, “Be back in a tick, yeah?” she said, brightly, then loped off into the bush.

Evan rolled over on his side and watched her. “Here Drakey, Dra-CO, get your furry arse over here or so help me I will turn you into a towel and dry my tits on you.” There was a loud noise, and Evan watched the plane streak by overhead. It was very close to the ground. He tried reaching out to touch it. 

A moment later, there was a boom that shook the ground, followed by a series of smaller booms. Evan pulled himself up into a seated position as Jean came back with Draco the ferret wiggling in her arms. 

“Sorry about that. Now before I send you home, Evan, let’s get your story straight. I’m hoping they won’t come looking for you, but it’s a possibility. Your story is you took a later flight and missed this one #1981 - a lucky break for you. I’m going to obliviate the pilots I could obliviate you too, but I don’t know how that would work with everything, so we’ll play this one by ear, right?”

Evan nodded dumbly. He was distracted by her face; it was beautiful. He was sure he should be asking more questions, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think what they would be. 

“Now, this is the most important. If people you don’t know come looking for you, whatever you do, don’t get in any vehicle with them. Nothing that moves, okay?”

“No vehicles. 

“And if they say they want to move you to a secure location - _run_. Understand? Secure is unsecure.”

“Secure is unsecure.”

“Perfect.”

* * *

Evan woke with a start and groaned. The nightmare again, the necklace pulled him down to the bottom of a pond, he couldn’t breathe. He ran his hand along his neck and encountered fur. Warm fur. Warm musky fur. A sleepy chirp and little feet scratched up his neck. He saw a small pink nose, two grey eyes, and a white furry face. He yelped and leaped out of bed, falling on his arse. The animal launched itself out of his bed and landed on his head. 

Evan screamed and smacked the ferret off his head and onto the floor. He grabbed a tennis racket from the corner of the room and tried to chase the rodent into the bathroom. It was too quick and scampered out of his bedroom. He ran toward the living room only to be stopped by a roll of old-timey paper - parchment - floating in mid-air. It whacked him on his nose, and it unfurled. It was blank at first, and then handwriting flowed across the page like magic. 

_ On your nightstand. _

He stood there a moment and watched it. It cycled through the message, minus the whack on the nose, three more times. Given how parched his throat was and how his head was throbbing, he might still be drunk, or this was a dream. _ Why else would a piece of parchment float? _ He waved his hand above and below the parchment to see if there were wires. There weren’t. He walked behind the paper to see if he missed something that action triggered something because the sheet burst into blue flames. A few flakes of ash floated to the floor. 

He sat down on his bed, on the nightstand, there was a smaller roll of parchment. It flew into his hand and unfurled. Inside was a small vial with a cork stopper. Handwriting spread across the page instructing him to:

_ Drink me. _

He hesitated, he couldn’t remember if it made Alice larger or smaller, but if this were a dream, maybe he would wake. The liquid inside was a pleasant pale green with tiny bubbles rising. He popped the cork and sniffed. It smelled fresh. He took a small sip - it was like being hit in the mouth with a mint brick. He shook his head; his hangover was melting away. _ Oh, this is good_, he downed the rest of the vial. The paper and the vial both burst into flames. 

Maybe this was one of those not-quite-awake dreams. Evan scrubbed his hands over his face. He needed to change his contacts; then he could deal with this. 

He walked into the kitchen and found an omelet - spinach, tomato, and bacon cooked hard - still warm in the pan on the cooker. A parchment hovered over the dish then dove for him, It chased him around the table then clouted him on the head. 

_ Eat up; breakfast is the most important meal of the day. _

Not a dream. Part of him thought he should bin the omelet-of-unknown-origin, but it smelled good, and he was starving. He slid the omelet onto a plate and put some bread in the toaster. At the table, a large glass of water and a small glass of juice and another parchment was hovering. He caught it this time.

_ Don’t forget to hydrate and consume sugar in moderation. _

He was chewing on the third bite of omelet when the chair across from him moved, and he saw a twitching pink nose and the tips of whiskers peek over the edge — time. Time to change tactics. “Come on, little guy. Sorry about the racket. What was your name again? She called you Jakey?” There was a round of disgusted chitters. “No, that’s not right. There was an ‘O’ at the end of it. The ferret bounced up on the table his whiskers swishing back and forth. For some reason, Evan’s brain kept supplying the word _arsehole_, but that couldn’t be right.

“Oh, wait, Draco! You’re Draco the ferret.” The ferret dipped its head. “Want a bit of brekkie? Some lovely eggies. Come and get it-” Before Evan had a chance to grab him, the little rotter took the piece of egg and stole a whole slice of toast. “Naughty ferret.” He noticed there was something around its neck. He tore off a piece from his remaining toast and held it out. The ferret came close to snatch the piece but slithered out of Evan’s grasp. Evan caught Draco’s small collar. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he had it in his hands, he was intrigued by the large silver bead dangling from the collar with intricate symbols carved on the bead. He thought he heard; no felt, the wind whooshing by. 

After he cleaned up his dishes, he padded back into the bedroom with the ferret following. He dropped the bead on his dresser tray where he kept his wallet, spare glasses, phone, and keys. He promptly forgot about it. He went to the bathroom where clothes were laid out for him next to the gray bag from last night. Another parchment floated in the air, then dove towards him. He caught it and unrolled it.

_ Evan, would you mind watching Draco for me today? I’d feel more comfortable knowing he was with you. I have a few things I need to do that require minimal distraction, and he is a maximum distraction as I’m sure you found. I’ll catch up with you later. Jean. _

Well, at least he hadn’t dreamed up the pretty girl. So that meant that amazing kiss had been real. And the burning plane. _ SHIT THE PLANE_. He ran back out to his dresser and looked at his phone; it was out of power, of course. He plugged in the charger and paced. When the screen finally displayed, he had 54 missed calls and 22 messages. Half from Aunt Moony and the other half was Winnie.

He wasn’t at all sure how he was going to explain this. 

* * *

It was a toss-up, which was worse, wrestling a reluctant ferret into a carrier or getting fitted for a kilt. 

Evan was standing in the crowded little shop with five other blokes, regretting his decision to join Donald’s wedding party. He was honored, but it was a bit awkward now, considering Winnie, his ex, was Donald’s younger sister. The cherry on top was he would be wearing a scratchy skirt without pants because apparently, _real_ _men_ don’t wear pants under their kilts. 

“Oy, Fluffy, your handbag is moving again.” And his teammates were ever, so understanding about his unexpected ferret sitting. 

He had tried to explain that he was watching Draco for a girl, a very pretty girl, and it was _her _emotional support ferret. They only heard the word ferret, or more correctly, fairy. So, the gray bag was now his, “Fairy handbag where he kept his moving man-gina,” a direct quote from Donald.

He needed better friends.

When his health began to improve last year, Aunt Moony had pushed him to enroll in classes at a nearby college. Still restless, he joined a recreational footy club. He loved being on the field, running, dodging, punting, catching, tackling. It was almost like flying, and the only time he didn’t second guess himself. After the first game, when he wrapped up a player twice his size and tackled him to the ground, they called him a ‘mad dog.’ Embarrassed by the praise, he joked, “I’m no Fluffy, the teacup terrier.” Unfortunately, Fluffy had stuck. They made up a special kit with his number 7 and “Fluffy” emblazoned on the back. His teammates were arseholes, but they didn’t talk in hushed voices around him. For that, he would let them call him Fluffy. 

When Evan walked into the little shop with the shelves stacked to the rafters with bolts of colorful, clashing cloth his head swam, his claustrophobia crept in. He had been on his back foot since he asked if there was a McGonagall tartan. He wasn’t sure why that name sprang to mind. The owner informed that ‘the McGonagalls were queer folk I've naught to do wit’' and if he wanted McGonagall plaid, he could ‘feck off.’ Donald smoothed over the ruffled feathers, and Evan ended up with a Wilson tartan, Donald’s surname.

The gruff man had just finished his measurements when Evan’s phone rang. The man snorted in a very Scottish way and said something with more vowels than consonants that probably insulted him on a genetic, sociological, and philosophical level. Happy to have any reason to get out of the stifling shop, Evan grabbed his ferret carrier and stepped outside. “Hello?”

A man stood there, one hand held a coffee mug the other phone. He was blond and tall. He closed the phone and pocketed it, taking a wincing sip of coffee probably from the heat. "Hello, Evan. My name is Agent Cormac McClaggen. I’m from Interpol working with the SIS here in Australia. Do you have a moment to talk to me? I want to ask you a few questions about your flight last night.” Evan nodded but clutched the strap of the bag a bit tighter. This felt wrong. 

Agent McClaggen ushered him toward a large black SUV. Evan hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do. “A-hem, is there a problem?” asked McClaggen.

“You want me to get in the truck?”

“Yes, it’s safe inside, and no one can listen in, this needs to be a very private conversation.” Evan shifted nervously. For the first time today the bag had stopped moving, almost like the ferret knew this was high stakes. 

The inside of the truck was plush leather and housed a small, round woman dressed in green. He wanted to croak at her. “Hello, Mr. Black. I am Inspector Umbridge. Thank you for joining me for this little chat.” Evan wasn’t sure how a baby voice could also be so bloody scary. “We just want to clear up some details from last night.” She paused and took a long gulp of coffee. She and McClaggen had the same mug “You were registered as a passenger on Flight #1981.” 

“Yes.”

“Which crashed?”

“Yes.”

“Then how are you sitting here?” She gave him a twisted little smile of victory like she had caught him in a lie. 

“Well, I was bumped to a later flight.” 

“A later flight?” Her face fell, and her jowls wobbled like a croaking toad.

“Yes, I was quite put out. Though I did get upgraded to first class and I received a voucher for a future flight.” Evan was surprised how easily the lies flowed out.

“I see. And in the lounge, you spoke with a young woman before Flight #1981 took off. Can you describe her?” 

Beautiful. “I don’t know. It’s hard to remember...” all the details how the light caught each curl differently, the dazzling smile, those velvet-soft eyes. “I don’t think anyone would look twice at her...” they would never look away the first time. 

“Mr. Black, you must not tell lies. Failure to cooperate with us could land you in jail.” The doors of the truck locked.

“What are you doing?”

“We need to take you to a secure location, where you will be safe. Jean White is a very dangerous woman.”

Evan grabbed the door handle and tried to pull up the lock. “No, let me out right now. I want a solicitor.” 

The truck pulled away from the curb and was driving down the street. There was a tap on the window. Evan looked out and saw Jean on a broom keeping pace with the truck. 

Then the explosions started. 

* * *

One moment the truck was in one piece, and the next Evan, Agent McClaggen and Inspector Umbridge along with all their coffee mugs were tossed in the air as the right side of the truck severed and split off with a metallic shriek. Foam from the plush cushions exploded and fell like snow. The people in the car were yelling and pulling out chopsticks, Evan wasn’t sure how that would help. Then a hand, just a single hand with nothing attached, appeared out of thin air and grabbed him.

He was hoisted up and over something while his feet were left to dangle. “E-van, really I leave you alone for - what - two hours and you did exactly what I told you not to. If they had realized what they had or who you were... Well, this would be over.”

Evan made the mistake of looking down, and he saw that he was dangling some 100 meters above the ground. He clutched at whatever he was holding. He could feel it, but he couldn’t see it. “Oh, MY GOD! I’m going to die. Please just put me down before I fall to my death.”

“Merlin’s hat, you are more dramatic than Draco. Here, let me pull you up.” Evan felt a tap on his head, and he felt lighter, then small, strong hands pulled him up and arranged him, so he was sitting in front of someone, presumably Jean on something very narrow and thin. His hands were wrapped around a stick, the broom, she had been riding. 

“Jean? Is that you? I can hear you, but I can’t see you.”

“Well, that would be the disillusionment charm along with the invisibility cloak. Hang on a tick. I need to disillusion you too, Statue of Secrecy and all.” He felt another tap on his head and his hands, arms, legs, everything was gone. ”We have to put some distance between us and those Ministry arseholes.” 

Individually her words made sense, but when she strung them together, he had no bloody idea what she was on about. He decided to stop worrying because one part of him, a large part, was terrified that he was going to fall to his death from a great height because he couldn’t see his body. This part, the very reasonable part, was in direct opposition to a smaller, more ridiculous part that was delighting in the wind on his face and the sense of freedom riding the broom brought. 

His heart rate had returned to normal by the time they set down in an alleyway. He felt the broom bounce as she dismounted. One moment the alley was empty then with a soft swish of fabric there she was. He had forgotten just how lovely she was, though crazy. She folded up a shimmering piece of cloth and stuffed it into her bag then started waving her hand through the air. 

“Jean, what are you doing?”

“Oh, there you are. I’m looking for you. I need to cancel the charm.” She tapped him again with her stick and said something that sounded Latin. It felt like someone had cracked an egg in reverse, the yolk was trickling up his shoulders, neck, ears, and head. 

Once she could see him, she began poking her finger in his chest. “Evan, what you did was very, very stupid. You risked yourself, and more importantly, Draco. Give me his carrier please.” Evan handed over the bag, entirely at a loss for words. 

She unzipped it and pushed almost her whole head in the bag, which was odd. Heads don’t usually fit in handbags unless there were giant handbags, this was only a small, carrier, come to think of it, Draco was much too large for the bag. How did he fit in it? “Lovely, ferret vomit, but everything else is in order. Hang on where is his collar?” 

Evan had had it. “Jean, what the hell is going on? Why do you have a flying stick? Why do you care about that mangy little rodent? How the fuck did you make me invisible? Why do the SIS and Interpol want to talk to me?”

Caught off guard by his outburst, he could see Jean’s face go through numerous emotions. She opened and closed her mouth at least five times to say something. Finally, she sagged. “Crumbs, you and your pretty eyes. Do you want the truth?”

“I think I deserve it.”

“Yes, but what if you can’t handle the truth?” She looked in his face, judging what she found there. He wasn’t sure what she saw, but she nodded. “It’s not a flying stick, Evan. It’s a broom.” She waved her chopstick, and a broom appeared with the word _ Firebolt _on the sides. "I’m a witch, and I shouldn’t be telling you this. We, magical peoples, have a law called the Statute of Secrecy that prohibits sharing information about us with non-magical folks, or Muggles, like you.”

Of the things that he expected her to say, that was well down on his list. Honestly, he had been hoping she was going to tell him he was either a) in a dream or b) taking part in some experimental drug test. 

“So, you’re a witch with the pointy hat, magic wand, and flying broom? Black cat too?”

She frowned, “Actually, he was orange.”

“No, this is not okay. I’ve been on a plane that crashed, mauled by a rodent, beaten up by weird floating paper, kidnapped and flown hundreds of feet in the air on some invisible stick. And you are saying it’s because you are a witch? Stop taking a piss.”

“Really, what other explanation would make sense? I am a witch. Without me, you would be somewhere _ secure _ as they either poured potions down your gullet or cursed you into a gibbering mess.”

“Potions?’ For some reason Evan’s stomach clenched, and his palms sweated at the word. 

Her eyes narrowed, and her finger poked the middle of his chest again. “Now you listen, without me, you are just a stain on the concrete. This is you with me.” She held her hand above her head. “This is you without me.” She dropped her hand well below her waist. “With me.” High again. ‘Without me.” Her hand dropped again. “With me.” it shot back up. 

Evan looked at her. This was all bloody nonsense. He turned on his heel and started walking back to the high street. He needed perspective; he needed to talk to someone. The question was, after their vacation from hell, otherwise known as Alice Springs, would she even see him? 

* * *

Evan’s feet carried him to the cafe where Winnie worked. One of many reasons he had broken up with her as she was overly critical. The main reason he’d broken it off was due to her antics on Topless Tuesday at a bar they found in Alice Springs, followed closely by just feeling of _wrongness_ when he was with her. 

Sitting at the counter, Evan related most of the details of the last twelve hours to his ex, excluding Jean being an actual witch because that was so far-fetched he didn’t want to share it. 

“So, she’s a crazy person then.” Winnie stole a chip from his plate; another reason he’d broken up with her, he hated when she ate off his plate, especially since she never asked. “I think you should call the police.”

“How about, no. I don’t want another visit from the SIS. I’m actively trying to avoid that.”

A person sat on the stool next to him. “Avoid what?” asked Jean as she spun the seat in a circle. 

Winnie’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t like competition, even if she was his ex. Evan was trying to catch her eye to indicate that Jean was _the woman _he had been talking about. He blurted out, “That’s _the woman_.”

Jean looked at him, quizzically. “I’m the woman? Yes, I am _a _ woman. Though I don’t know if I am _the woman. _ Evan, we need to go back to your flat. _ Right now _.” She touched the back of his hand and fixed him with a meaningful gaze. Pity he didn’t know she was trying to say.

Winnie snatched his hand away from Jean’s. “He’s not going anywhere with you. Certainly, not back to his flat.”

Jean raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? _ Confundus_.” Jean stood and yelled, “Our love is too deep and wide for you to understand, Winnie. Don’t try to stop us. Or I’ll shoot myself first, then him.” Evan was shocked by the gun in her hand. 

_ Where did that come from? _

She pointed it toward the ceiling and fired two rounds. A cloud of plaster fell in front of them, hiding them from the other patrons. She dragged him out of the restaurant. He wasn’t sure how someone so small could be so intimidating or cause such havoc. 

On the curb, he stopped her, “Jean, what the hell? What are you doing? Where did you get a gun?”

“What gun?” She was holding a handkerchief she put in her bag. 

“How did you do that? Wait, no, why did you do that?”

“Magic, and she was about to be a real bitch, and I don’t have time. Draco told me he left something vital in your flat, and I have to get it back. Besides, you are much safer with me.” 

Evan wasn’t so sure about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [ArielSakura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArielSakura/pseuds/ArielSakura/works?fandom_id=136512) for the the local color. Alice Springs is not for lovers.


	3. Smoke

“Ferrets don’t talk, Jean.”

“Generally, no, but specifically, this one can, though he chooses to only talk about biscuits and breaking wind.” The ferret in question peeked out of his carrier. 

Tabling what a ferret would know about farts for later, Evan changed tact, “It would help to know _ what _ you are looking for.” He knew he sounded peevish. They were walking back to his flat to find some unknown item that could do something, and Jean wanted it desperately but was being tightlipped about it. 

“I can’t tell you. It’s too much of a risk. Once I get _it _back, I’ll be on my way, and you can return to your normal, safe life. I shouldn’t have involved you, Evan. But it’s nice to have your company. Draco has a two-track mind, and you have such pretty eyes - _disregard_.” Her cheeks had gone pink.

“You think they’re pretty?” He fluttered his eyelashes at her and was thrilled when her blush deepened. It was very satisfying getting a rise from this scary, brilliant woman. 

He wasn’t expecting her to shove him to the ground and shout, “_Protego_.” A jet of staticky purple light bounced off the shimmering bubble that had formed around them. She grabbed him around the waist and rolled them behind a parked car. She peeked around the corner, and another jet of purple whizzed by them. This one hit the building behind them; a six-foot circle in the brick wall decayed and crumbled into dust. 

“Dolohov,” Jean called.

“White.” 

Evan chanced a glance through the car window. He saw a stocky man with dark shaggy hair and a craggy face, wearing what looked like a ragged, black dressing gown glaring at them. 

“Can’t hide forever.”

“On the contrary, I can. Is your other half about? How is Rowle? Did he and Alecto recover from the house I dropped on them?”

The dark man’s face split in a disgusting grin with wormy lips and yellow teeth. “You killed him and Alecto, `suka. I liked her.”

“Now, now, Dolohov, no foul names. I’m sorry about Alecto and Rowle; I guess that only leaves you and Lestrange to keep each other warm at night. Don't get too attached. I’m going to kill you, then him. Order is important.”

He snorted. “You will be killing nobody. Where is Zephyr? Tell me and I kill you fast. Otherwise, I make nice and slow.” 

“At the moment, I don’t know where it is. What a colossal waste of your time. Now, why don’t you toddle off and I’ll kill you another day?” Jean looked at Evan, “Don’t worry. We do this all the time.”

“What, threaten to kill each other? You have weird friends.”

She crouched, readying herself for an attack. ”We aren’t friends, but we do try to murder each other regularly. So, more like colleagues, eh mu'dak?” She smiled at Evan, “That’s Russian for arsehole.” She was just about to jump out when a red jet of color hit Jean in her back. He looked up and saw a man with dirty blond hair, hard, cruel eyes, and a missing hand before he saw red, then he knew no more. 

* * *

Evan smelled moisture. It was the first thing he noticed, followed by the ringing in his ears. He opened his eyes. It was dark, and his cheek rested against a cold, wet floor. He wanted to sit up, but when he tried every bone and muscle in his body protested. So instead, he stayed where he was, drifting in and out of consciousness. 

He was vaguely aware that he was not alone. He heard a voice talking to him, “...with me Evan. I will get you out of this. If they think this rope is going to hold me, they deserve to die. I’m just waiting to see if they call Lestrange. He’s a slippery devil... Rowle's still mad about the hand he lost. I cursed it off. Be a bad guy, and you lose body parts. Prime example, No-Nose Voldy... I promise no more danger after this. I’ve loved being with you, it’s just like old times, but too risky. If anyone figures out who you are... I’m glad you went with contacts - without the glasses or the scar, no one is looking for you... Just hang on, I have a cunning plan..." 

Evan noticed that she was swinging back and forth. “I just need some momentum...” There was shouting and colored lights. Then he was suddenly hoisted up, his body light as a feather. “This time, I’ll make sure you're dead, Rowle, _Bombarda maxima_.” 

He resurfaced again sometime later. “Are you with me, Evan? Hold tight. You’re doing great.” He felt like he was being slurped through a straw and passed out again.

* * *

Evan smelled moisture. Salty, fishy moisture - the beach. His cheek pressed against sand; it was coarse, rough, and irritating. _ Ugh, I don’t like sand, it gets everywhere. _ He tried to sit up. 

“Oh, Evan, you fell out of your hammock. Let me help you.” He was floating, and he dropped lightly into the netting. He cracked an eye and saw Jean. She was in the shadow. _ Where am I? _He looked around the room. It opened up to a white sandy beach, turquoise waves washing ashore, and a blue sky bright enough to hurt his eyes. 

Jean stepped into the light. She was wearing a white bikini. A purple mark bisected her torso, running from between her breasts to her right hip. The skin didn’t quite meet; it was jagged and raw. Scars of all colors covered her body: reds, oranges, and blues, like a toddler had scribbled all over her. Her left arm looked wrong, fractured like a broken mirror. Her entire right leg was silver, making her gait a syncopated hitch-roll-shuffle to compensate for how stiffy the metal moved. Metal shouldn’t move at all. 

Too late he realized he was gawking. Crossing her arms, she covered where the jagged purple line started. “Is something wrong?

“What happened to you? Did they get you?” 

She pointed to her chest, “This? No, it’s old,” she said, much too brightly. “A souvenir from the first time I met Dolohov. Nothing is free with magic, it always has a price, and you can’t get out of paying it. It doesn’t make things easier. Magic makes things dangerous.” Her voice was low as she finished.

This woman was all alone with only a particularly amorous ferret to keep her company. She was part of something huge and truly_ magical_, but he could see her cracks, her fissures, her scars. 

“First time?”

She walked over to the table and measured out the liquid into a vial. “I was fifteen when we first crossed wands, as we say. Dolohov tried to kill me, but I silenced him, and his curse didn’t have enough oomph to do the job.” 

“Is that why you want to kill him?”

She nodded, then offered him the vial. “Here drink this. It’s a pain potion.” Evan took it and drained the whole thing, and that was unwise. It was utterly foul, like a combination of mineral oil with ground-up caterpillars, but his headache melted away, and his limbs loosened as the pain left them. “Don’t go too fast. It will take time for the magic to dissipate. It clings to flesh and bone and hurts like a bitch. I’m sorry I was sloppy. I should never have let Rowle catch us. I forgot bad guys lie. ”

She was doing it again. Why could her words never make sense? “S’right. He got the jump on you. I think I saw you fighting him, the blond one with the missing hand, that’s Rowle?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill him?”

She sat on a stool near his hammock. “You aren’t going to let this go are you?” He shook his head. Her face blanked, and her voice flattened. “Yes, I killed him. What questions do you have for me?” 

He had so many, but with her close, they all fled, except one. “Are you going to kill me?”

She grabbed his hand and squeezed, “Oh, Merlin. No, I’d sooner cut off my arm. No, Evan. I plan to put you back where you belong with your Aunt Moony and your Uncle Wendy.”

Evan stilled. “How do you know about them? Are they okay? You didn’t do anything to them, did you? What about that Dolohov or Lestrange?”

She fixed him with a stare, “They are fine. They are safe. Nothing is going to happen to them. No one knows about them.”

“Yes, but you do. How do you know what I call my aunt and uncle?”

For the briefest moment, he saw her hesitate, “You mentioned them before.” 

That was a lie. Evan was careful with their nicknames; it was personal, private, and his. He wasn’t sure why she was lying, but she was. “I must have,” he said, but he would revisit this. He looked around, “Where are we?”

She smiled, “Paradise. They called this place Paradise. It was Draco and Theo’s villa, and since they weren’t using it anymore, I made it unplottable. Now we have a place to lie low if we need it.”

_ Unplottable? _ She acted like the ferret owned the villa. Who was Theo? Draco's original owner? Why couldn’t she make sense? His head was spinning again.

He noticed a picture. It looked to be a younger Jean with a black-haired boy and a ginger boy. “Who are they?” She stood and walked over to the picture and brought it to him. “It’s moving!”

“Wizarding pictures move. These are- weremy best friends from school. From life.”

“Were or are?”

“Were. They’re dead, and gone.”

“Is that why you killed Rowle, then?” 

She stiffened. “Yes, though there is a myriad of reasons to kill him and the rest of the merry band of Death Eaters. I am doing the world a service. It’s for the _ Greater Good_.”

The phrase raked across his ears. “It seems more like murder.”

She dug her teeth into her bottom lip. “Perhaps, but understand that these people, and I use the term loosely, would kill you without even thinking about it. For me this is personal. I've lost everything because of them."

"Killing them won't bring it back."

She frowned, "Oddly, enough it kind of has. I am close to the end. I have something that they want. Well, until this morning, I had it. It’s a potent piece of magic.”

“That’s is in my apartment?”

“Yes.”

"What is it again?"

"Ah-ah-AHhhh, not telling. Nice try, though."

“Fine, then let’s go back to my apartment.”

“Right now, it is being watched by your SIS and wizards from the British Ministry of Magic. If we get within the kilometers, they’ll have us.”

Evan smiled, “I thought there were no ropes that could hold you?”

“Well, when it is a tosser like Lestrange or Dolohov with their wits addled by Azkaban - that's a wizard prison, by the way - then sure. But Ministry wizards will tie you up in red tape, literally. Fucking bureaucrats.”

“So what are we going to do?”

She stood and smiled. “We are going to Kathmandu.” 

* * *

The jolt of the train woke him. Evan sat up and bonked his head on the upper bunk bed. He looked around and saw the mountain moving past. Rolling out of bed, he stood at the window. They had taken a compass - _really,_ he'd touched a compass - then he had spun like a top. When he stopped spinning, they were in Jaipur in northern India. Jean insisted on taking a train to Kathmandu because the ‘portkey’ travel would be monitored. 

A set of clothes lay on the table in front of the window. He looked out the window while he dressed, they were high enough in the mountains that there was snow. It was beautiful until you got up to the window and saw the drop. No one would survive that. 

Evan turned back to the room, and a roll of parchment darted out of nowhere diving for his nose. Evan plucked it out of the air and unfurled it. He was getting the hang of this magic thing. Jean’s handwriting curled across the page. 

_ Meet us in the dining car. _

He looked around the compartment, realizing there was a distinct lack of ferrets, he couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing. 

* * *

The dining car was a shabby little affair with dull stainless steel fittings, worn counters, uncomfortable seats, and what looked to be dried out sandwiches. Evan found a warm beer but no Jean or Draco. 

A man sat down next to him. “Seat taken?” The man had a soft accent that seemed Slavic in origin. Evan looked left and realized it was Dolohov. Up close, Evan felt the burning dark eyes. The older man ran a hand through his graying greasy hair. The arm of his bathrobe fell, exposing a twisted, seething mass the inside of his forearm. It looked red and raw, and it appeared to be oozing. His face lined and pockmarked, looked like it was cut on hard, painful things. 

“Can I help you?” asked Evan when the man's glare became too intense. 

“Dunno, can you? Where White?”

Evan took a sip of his beer, “Gone.”

The man grabbed his shirt. “Don’t play games, boy.” The attendant behind the counter cleared his throat. He was well over six feet tall and looked like he could handle himself. The man smoothed down Evan’s shirt, then stood, but grabbed Evan, towing him behind him into the kitchen. 

He put Evan in a headlock hissing, “Where is it? She has it, yes?”

Evan scanned the car looking for something he could use as a weapon; he saw a frying pan. As the headlock tightening, he could feel his mind separating from his body. The edges of his vision grew dark; everything was growing dim, Then something snapped, he wasn’t going to be pushed around anymore. Using both hands, he broke the headlock. Pivoting, he snatched up the pan just as a colorful jet of purple light split the air. It hit his pan, which rusted and broke apart. Part of the spell whizzed off and blew a hole in the side of the car cold, fresh air rushed in along with the noise of the speeding train. 

The man regrouped and blocked the doorway Dolohov's wand in his hand. A white blur flashed through the air. A fountain of red blood sprayed from a bite in his assailant’s neck. 

Jean rushed into the room, wand drawn. “Dolohov, it is not a pleasure. Drop your wand.”

With one hand on the wound, he used the other to send colored sparks toward Jean. She avoided all of them. He growled and launched himself towards the woman. Seeing his opportunity, Evan tackled him, wrapping his arms around him like he was on the footy field, and tackled the man to the ground. He straddled Dolohov and punched him hard and fast. He didn’t stop until he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Evan you can stop. He’s out cold.”

Evan got up and looked at the bloody mess on the floor, “Did I kill him?”

Jean shook her head, “Probably not. He’s a miserable cuss.” She reached into her bag and felt around for something then pulled out thick handcuffs. She fastened them around Dolohov’s wrists and touched them with her wand. They glowed with blue fire. Dolohov awoke, screaming. “Now that I have your attention. Are you by yourself or is Lestrange with you.”

He snarled. “Nothing, Mudlbood. I say nothing.”

Jean sneered back at him. “Oh, shall I obliviate you and send you on your way then? I've gotten good at it, Dolohov. I could obliviate all memories about how to go to the toilet, so you prefer to sit in your filth.”

“Try me.”

The cuffs glowed brighter, and his flesh started to smoke. “Tell me. It won’t stop until you do. You know I found your treatise on charms and fire. Brilliant really, I used your concepts to make these cuffs. They curse the flesh they burn through. You won’t be able to regrow skin or reattach your hands if these burn through your wrist. How good is your wandless magic, Dolohov? You’ll need it without hands.”

He was gritting his teeth, the cords in his neck were standing out, “Flawless.” 

There was a meaty thunk as one of his hands hit the floor. “I’m not joking. One down and one to go. From there I will move on to your feet, then your _ other appendages_.” 

He gave her a look somewhere between awe and terror. “You are fierce like tiger, ‘suka, ruthless. And cruel.”

“I’m whatever I have to be, Dolohov. Is Lestrange here?”

The answer tore out of him, “No!” The cuff unclamped from his wrist and fell to the floor. He dove for his wand; it had rolled toward the gaping hole. Evan kicked the wand away and pushed Dolohov out the opening into the ravine below. Jean picked up the wand and broke it in half. 

”Do you think he is dead?” asked Evan.

She stood by the hole, looking out at the drop. “I would like to think so, but I have learned that unless I see the body itself, I don’t cross out the name.”

“The name?”

“Yes, on my Kill List.”

Evan buried his head in his hands, “Should I even ask?” 

* * *

In Kathmandu, Evan was short of breath just disembarking from the train. Jean passed her wand over him then dug in her bag and pulled out a vial of the pale green liquid she left on his nightstand. “Pepper-up potion will help. I also did an oxygen increasing charm, be careful to keep moving. It draws the air towards you. If you stay too long in one spot, you could rob all the oxygen from the nearby air and make bystanders pass out.”

They walked through town then out the other side. “Where are we going?”

“To the camp, I have to meet someone.” As they walked, Evan had the most persistent feeling that he had left something behind, and he needed to turn around and get it _right away._ Jean linked her arm around his, muggle repelling charm and hustled him along. Then they crossed a barrier, and the feeling was gone, replaced by wonder.

A moment ago, the valley before him was empty. Now it was teeming with people of all kinds, young and old, dressed fantastically. There were colorful flags and rows upon rows of tents; some looked like tiny houses with lawns and decorations. One was a giant shoe. Away in the distance, he saw what looked like a stadium, if a stadium had been sliced horizontally like a layer cake. The sections were spinning slowly and floating well above the ground. Two sets of three hoops stood at either end of the Pitch? Open-air? Field? He saw a few people playing some pick-up ball game, but they were riding brooms. He followed Jean goggling at everything he saw.

She arrived at a small space and looked at the number, “Yes, this is 3,876.” She opened up her bag and rummaged around and pulled out a long white, something that she laid on the ground.”Here help me flatten it.” 

Evan realized it was a small white tent that looked like it had seen better days. She waved her wand, and the tent poles and pegs found their way to the right places and the tent rose like a loaf of bread baking. Jean stepped through the flap, and he followed her into the unexpectedly large space. It had a homey feel, very lived-in though a bit musty smelling. There was red and gold everywhere, and he liked the contrast. “You can take whatever bunk you want. My meeting isn’t until tomorrow, so we have time to kill. Would you like a toasty?” 

Evan let Draco out of his carrier. He climbed up Evan’s arm and sat on his shoulder. Since the train, Evan decided Draco was all right. Nearly taking off an ear of a bad guy, tends to engender warm feelings even towards a furry rat-like creature.

“Yes, can I put some music on?”

“Radio is somewhere behind the potion bench.” 

He assumed she meant the thing that looked like a rickety camp stove that could tumble over at any minute that was bursting with bottles. He picked one up. “Eye of newt? Is this for real?"

She slipped off her shoes and jacket and padded over to the kitchenette. “Yes, it has an expansionary property when mixed with certain herbs picked under the right conditions.”

He found a small purple box. The label read _ Chocolate Frog. _ He snorted, wondering if it had been ‘_cleansed in the finest quality spring water, _ and _ lightly killed_.' “What’s going on with all the tents in the middle of Kathmandu?” 

“It’s the Asian semi-final for the World Cup.”

“Wait, like football?”

She snorted, “No, Quidditch. Though, I guess it’s the Wizarding World’s equivalent to football. But it’s more like cricket on brooms.” 

Evan poked around until he found an old fashioned radio. He flicked it on, and it glowed orange. “_ ...that was Celestina Warbeck’s ‘Y_ou Make my Cauldron Boil_,’ now here’s one for our Muggle friends in Kathmandu at the Asian Quidditch Semifinals. We are all rooting for #45 in our Program but #1 in our hearts Lulu Louie, the star Seeker of The Kimberly Splendid Tree Frogs representing Australia. You go girl!” _ The familiar crash of drums and the guitar riff of _ Louie Louie _filled the tent. Evan couldn’t believe his luck; this was one of his favorite songs. He grabbed Jean around the waist; the sandwiches could wait and pushed her towards a clear spot on the floor. 

Jean turned towards him eyes wide. “Evan, what are you doing? I don’t dance.”

Evan grabbed her arm and pulled her close. He was a terrible dancer, Winnie had told him that at least a thousand times. At this moment he didn’t think his technique really mattered. He spun her to and fro, raising their entwined hands over their heads. He caught her hand and using momentum turned her back toward him, weaving this way and that. She cracked a smile midway through the song and was laughing by the end. Something about her arms around his neck and his hands at her waist felt so familiar, but it flew away before he could grasp it.

He thought he should let go, but he didn’t want to. 

The next song started, and a slow, rich voice poured out the speaker, “_I put a spell on you…_”

Evan chanced a glance at her. He would stop if she wanted, but she didn’t pull away when he stepped into her, hands around her waist. She sighed and put her head on his shoulder. He let one hand move around to her back to rub circles as they swayed. “I want to help, Jean. Tell me how, please.” 

He felt her shake her head. Her voice muffled by his shoulder, but he heard her say, “I shouldn’t involve you.”

“Jean, I’m already involved.” She looked up their eyes locked, breath mingling. He wanted so desperately to kiss her again. 

She shook her head, “Shhhh, keep dancing.” They danced until the woman’s voice faded. The radio advertisement for broom repair killed the mood. Jean pulled away and straightened her shirt, “Thanks, I forgot how nice it is to be held.”

Evan couldn’t agree more. 

She went back to her, toasty, “_Gemino.” _The single sandwich became two. She handed him his toasty on a plate. They sat on the settee munching. 

He was surprised when she broke the silence. “Draco wasn’t always a ferret. He’s a wizard. He was working with elemental magic — raw, strong, and wild. But Lestrange found out. Lestrange is a Dark wizard; I’ve been hunting him for years. I tracked him to Draco’s place on Paradise, but I got there too late.” 

She broke off a bit of her toasty and held it out to Draco, who grabbed it and scampered off. He found a nearby chair and curled in on himself until he was a tiny ball of fluff, almost like he couldn’t bear to hear this part of the story. “His partner, Theo, was already dead when I arrived. Draco is an animagus, a wizard that can transform into an animal. Something went wrong, either the trauma of losing Theo or a stray spell and his change was made permanent. I grabbed him, and some of his notes as Lestrange ransacked the place. I’ve tried everything I know to turn him back, but nothing has worked. So, I found a spell that translates his ferret chitters, mostly. He talks a lot about food, but occasionally he talks about Breaking Wind.” 

Evan snorted, “The fart jokes?” 

“Yes, at first I thought that, but I think it was a code name? Who can tell what is going on in his ferrety little brain? From the few notes I have, Draco and Theo were working with a Zephyr, the West Wind.”

Evan wasn’t sure if he was supposed to participate, He nodded, trying to keep this straight in his head. 

“A Zephyr is a source of unending power, like oil that never runs out or nuclear power that goes on forever. It could power very demanding rituals, especially Dark Magic. Since the Zephyr is just air, it can be very small or enormous. Draco and Theo had found a way to contain or harness it. Everyone wants it. But we need to find it. It will be small, not even the size of a fingernail. Draco keeps saying you took it. I am sure you don’t have it on you.”

“Why not?”

“According to Draco, it makes a lovely whooshing sound like wind blowing or deadlines passing by.”

Evan thought about what she said; it seemed familiar. He knew something about that but was like every time he thought about it; his mind would notice something else in the room. He breathed in and out, in and out, focused, then reached. 

_ He was sitting at the breakfast table, and the collar had a bead. When he touched it, he heard the wind. _

He rubbed his bracelet, a tingle pricked the tips of his fingers, “I remember, it’s in the tray on my dresser, I put Draco’s collar there, so I didn’t lose it.” 

* * *

“Your idea is to pretend we have the Zephyr to lure Lestrange out?” They had finished their sandwiches and were drinking a delightful thing called butterbeer, but the thin air was tiring Evan.

“Yes,” yawned Hermione.

“But how will you reach him?”

“I’m meeting my contact tomorrow. I’ll give him a message for Lestrange, then sit and wait for him to surface. I think I'll do something awful to him. Probably with explosions.”

Something had been bothering Evan since the plane. “Jean, is Lestrange the last one? What will you do when you’ve murdered all the people on your list?”

“I’ll still have Umbridge. I’m saving her for last.”

“Umbridge? Fine, but when you have murdered everyone on your murder list.”

“Kill List.”

“Fine, Kill List, how are you going to go on? You’ve lived for revenge, how will you live without it?” Evan channeled his best Aunt Moony with her leading questions.

She was quiet for a long time. “I don’t know that I ever thought about it if I’m honest. I should be dead, ten times over, but every time I think_ this is the end, _I can’t stop. I think once this is done I would like to go back to being myself. Read. Sleep. Rediscover my humanity. Live in a quiet place with a pond and perhaps some ducks though I don’t want to get my hopes up. Lestrange has it in for me. I put my odds at 23%.

“What, to lose?”

“No, to win. He is wily.”

“I’ll bet on you. If you let me, I’ll be there for you, too.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Thanks, Evan.” She patted the side of his cheek, fondly, “You’re lovely.’ She stretched and yawned extravagantly. Evan tried not to stare as her vest stretched across her chest. I don’t know about you, but I could use some sleep.”

He stood and walked toward his ‘room’ opposite hers. Jean smiled at him before shutting the curtain. He unlooped the tieback, and the curtain dropped. He stripped off his jumper and shirt, then his jeans. He wondered if Jean was doing the same thing across the space. 

He lay down in bed, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t get the idea that Jean was just on the other side of the tent laying in her bed. His hand crept towards the band of his trunks. If he was quiet, he could have a quick wank and be off to sleep, and she would be none the wiser. He closed his eyes, imagining Jean easing off her clothes as he wrapped his hand around himself. _ Jesus, I'm hard. _ Fantasy Jean sneaked into his room and caught him in the act; she gave him a small smile he had come to love in their brief acquaintance.

The curtain of his room twitched open, and his bed sank with the weight of the new occupant. He opened his eyes and saw pink. A pink twitchy nose and two gray eyes were watching him touch himself. Excellent, the particularly amorous ferry was gay. “DRACO,” bellowed Evan. He pulled up his trunks, grabbed Draco by the scruff of his neck, and marched out to the living room with a squirming mass of fur and fury. 

He was hunting for Draco’s carrier when he saw her. Jean was wearing her white vest, no bra, and a white pair of knickers. He could see her scars, but they weren’t ugly now. They were badges of honor. Evan dropped Draco into his carrier. 

“Is everything okay?”

No, it was not okay. It was not okay that this woman was bearing the brunt of this shite life. It was not okay that she gave herself only a 23% chance of surviving. Or that if she did survive, all she wanted was a pond with some ducks. She needed more than a ferret with boundary issues. He walked toward her, not subtle about what he wanted. Somewhere between killing a man who had marked her and talking about her almost certain death, he'd realized he wasn’t scared of her, and he was well on his way to being in love with her. 

He stood in front of her, breathless. He brushed the bit of bare skin between her knickers and vest with the tip of his fingers, “Jean. I’m going to kiss you.” _ Smooth move ex-lax._

“You shouldn’t. Once I get the Zephyr back from your apartment. I’ll be on my way, and you can get back to your normal life. You can forget about me.” 

“What makes you think I want that?” He pulled her toward him and pressed his lips against hers, burying his hand in her hair. He wasn’t going to sit by and do the smart thing. He was giving in to the reckless part of him. He tugged her shirt over her head. Her breasts were medium-sized with pink tips and perfect. He wanted to find out if one would fit in his mouth. He bent and sucked as much as he could into his mouth, tongue swirling, teeth nipping. He palmed the other breast rolling nipple between his thumb and middle finger. His other hand was busy trying to touch all of her exposed skin. He stood and ran both his hands over her arms, along her sides, through her hair. 

She pulled him towards her for a kiss that deepened to a wet, hot snog. She was weaving a bit, just enough off-center that he caught her as she started to fall. She was small enough that he could pick her up. She locked her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He walked her to his room, bumping into every piece of furniture on his way. No table or chair left unturned. He dumped her on the bed. “Take off your knickers, Jean. Unless you don’t want this?”

Her eyes darkened. “Oh, I definitely want this.” With a snap of her fingers, the garment was gone. She sprawled on the bed, his lioness.

He nestled himself between her open thighs, hovering for a moment before laying atop her kissing her. He ran his hand down her belly, past the damp curls to her slit, glazed with need. She moaned and spread her legs so his whole hand could cup her as she ground against his palm and fingers, seeking friction. 

He dragged two fingers through the damp seam, and they slid in an out easily, “Please, Evan, don’t make me wait, anymore,” she rolled her hips. He gathered the moisture in his hand and pumped himself a few times. He hovered over her again, rocking his hips back as her arms encircled his neck. 

“You're amazing, Jean,“ and he thrust inside her. Between the squeeze and the heat, Evan was shocked he didn’t cum right then.

Winnie made him feel like he couldn’t find her pleasure with both hands and a map. As he moved in and out of Jean, he realized his mistake: it was the partner. Jean’s breathy moans and pleas for “more” and “faster” as he pulled out and pushed in were all the direction he needed. 

He had never had a woman cum on his cock, but it appeared that Jean was swiftly racing toward that destination. She clutched him, leaving little room between them as he moved faster. With a small shriek, she dug her nails into his back, and she found her release. Everything about her melted and softened. He didn’t let up his rhythm. He could feel all his muscles tighten in anticipation. He let loose a roar as he came inside of her, dropping his head into the crook of her neck as emptied himself into her. 

Even as he emptied, he felt something filling him up. For the first time he could remember, his body felt like it was his own. Every part of him tingled, it felt magical. 

He hovered over her for a few moments enjoying the look in her eyes before rolling off her. He pulled her close to spoon.

“What was that, Mr. Black?

“That, Miss White, was me taking care of you.” 

“A girl could get used to that,” she yawned, snuggling into the pillow.

“Not a girl, a witch.” He placed a soft kiss on her temple. 

“Yes,” she mumbled sleepily, “And you are no Tom, Dick, or _ Harry_.”

Cuddled together, sleep found Evan and Jean, quickly. 

If they had managed to stay awake another minute, they might have seen Evan stir in his sleep as the scar shaped like a jagged lightning bolt appeared, or more correctly, reappeared on his forehead. Then his bracelet opened and fell off, becoming an eleven-inch holly wand with a crack in the middle, again.


	4. Haze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to [lunalunemoon.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunalunemoon/pseuds/lunalunemoon) I hope I have done Harmony's journey justice.

Harry yawned awake. It was early; the light still dim. He looked around the room, which was odd. He could see. Without his glasses. That was new. He blinked, and he could feel something on his eyes, contacts? When had he gotten contacts? He scrubbed his face, and he felt the familiar lumps and bumps of the scar on his forehead. He opened his eyes, still clear but crusty. He reached over to the side table beside his bed for his wand. Neither the table nor his wand was there. He shifted a bit, and he could see that the table most of the tables and some chairs had been knocked over. _ Had there been a fight? Is that why I can’t remember anything? _ Pondering could wait; he needed the loo, urgently. 

He found the toilet, making his way there by muscle memory. _This bloody tent._ He wasn’t sure why they hadn’t burned it after that miserable year living in it. He padded back to bed, slipped under the covers, and pulled the sleeping woman smothered by pillows closer. He liked burying his nose in Ginny’s hair, but instead of the cinnamon of Ginny, he smelled flowers. _ Has she changed her shampoo? _ He sneezed, and his mouth filled with curly hair. 

Ginny didn’t have curly hair.

He sat up and pulled the pillows back. The woman there had brown hair, her body covered in colorful scars. Her arm looked like a shattered mirror. Her entire leg was silver. 

And she was naked.

He looked down at himself. _ Wait, I’m naked. Had we? Did we? Oh, FUCK! _

Her breathing shifted as she stirred awake. She rolled over and stretched, naked as the day she was born. Her face was small and delicate, but it kept_ shifting_, If someone asked him to describe it, he would be hard-pressed to say anything. It rippled like water. She burrowed against him, draping an arm and a leg over him. 

“Mmmhhmmm, Evan. Why are you up so early? It’s still bedtime,” she whined. 

_Who is Evan? No, that does not matter, right now._

He had faced trolls, a basilisk, werewolves, dementors, Death Eaters, Umbridge, even a bloody dragon, but a naked Not-Ginny was by far the scariest thing he had ever faced. Ginny was going to murder him, probably twice, then the rest of the Weasely’s would finish the job.

Where was Ginny? He wracked his brain trying to figure out what could have landed him, here, in bed with Not-Ginny as she began to - _O__h, that's very nice - _curl her hand around his morning wood and stroke up and down. 

“Please - _ Godric _\- you have to stop.” Harry was going to need another Order of Merlin because he was a fucking hero right not let her truly magical fingers continue to caress him. He was so hard. It would take an hour for his erection to subside. He shimmied away from her grasp and eased out of bed, 

“Noooooo don’t go. Stay here,” she moaned sleepily. She held out her arms to him; the shattered one caught the light in odd ways. 

“Sorry, _ -um- _ Love. Just have a bit of a lie-in, okay?”

He spied his wand on the bed and summoned it with a quick whistle, a useful trick he learned from Luna. He grabbed his trunks and clothes and ducked out of the room. If he had looked back, he would have seen a pair of eyes following him. 

* * *

There were three things bothering Harry: first, he was in Kathmandu, and he had no idea how he came to be there; second, he'd lost five years of his life with no memory of what had happened; third, he couldn’t find the _ bloody _ portkey to the office to go back to Britain. He needed to go home, right now. 

He wanted to see Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, in that order. He needed to talk to Hermione because she would have an explanation for this madness. Ron would drink with him until they sorted out his feelings. And Ginny, he wanted to see and tell her, well, he wasn’t sure what he would say to her, yet. 

He has asked two people for directions, and he was back where he started as the camp began to wake. A third wizard walking through the camp on his hands, because witches get creative with hexes when you make fun of their team, was the most helpful in pointing out the bright blue tent for portkeys. 

Thankfully the queue was only four people deep. When he got the front, a small Indian man with an extravagant mustache ending in a twisted curl on either side of his nose gave him a bored look. He pointed his wand at his throat and some something with more vowels than consonants, a local translation charm, “Name, Destination and Time?”

“Harry Potter, British Ministry of Magic, and right now.”

A bushy eyebrow arched. “Not funny, Harry Potter has been dead for five years, and you don’t even look like him.”

“But I am Harry Potter. I can prove it. It’s here on my license.” Harry fished out his wallet from his back pocket. He pulled out his license and slapped it on the counter. 

“It says, Evans Black.”

Harry looked down at the card that should be his British driver's license because Hermione had insisted they all get tested. Instead of his British license with him wearing glasses, it was an Australian proof of age card with no glasses and the words ‘Evans Black’ emblazoned where his name should be. _ Why do I have an Australian ID? _

“I can issue a portkey, but not to Harry Potter. It will be 50 galleons or equivalent Muggle currency. If you agree, touch your wand here.” Harry thought about arguing the point, but he just wanted to leave. He pulled out the notes then touched his wand to the paper, magic practically pinged out of him, zapping his fingers. 

“Ouch, what was that?”

“Oh, the feedback? We are at the confluence of three ley lines. It does odd things to magic. Some spells are three times as powerful, and some spells fizzle _-pfftt."_ He flicked his fingers, "It makes sex magic very potent.” He winked, and his mustache bounced when he smiled. He grabbed a rubber duck from a basket of odds and ends and pointed his wand at it. He said something in his native language with too many syllables and handed it to Harry. “Please use a designated portkey zone. It will depart in five minutes.”

_ Good, not much can happen in five minutes. _ In his haste to get to the portkey zone, Harry missed the flash of black and white hopping behind him.

Harry made it to the zone with moments to spare. He clutched the duck, counting down, then he felt a weight on his foot. A largish rodent clutched his leg, making soft dooking coos. He tried to shake it off, but it only held him tighter. 

He bent down to grab the animal's tail when the portkey glowed blue as it activated. Portkeying while bent over was the worst. The portkey stopped spinning, but Harry did not. He flopped on the ground with an audible _thunk._ He rested his face against the cool, black marble of the Ministry’s floor willing his stomach to settle. He raised his head to look at the portkey porter. 

A bored voice drawled, “Welcome to Britain’s Ministry of Magic. Please exit the portkey zone. Do you have anything to declare?”

Harry looked over at him with one hand he moved his fringe to expose the scar on his forehead. “I’m Harry Potter. I don’t know what’s going on. Get this bloody animal off me.” 

* * *

The Burrow didn’t look different from the outside, but something wasn’t right. Then Harry realized what it was; there was no smoke curling out of the chimney. No one was home. Rain fell softly on the large hole that was once the front garden. Molly would be livid about her roses.

“_A-hem_, it’s held in trust, now,” explained Cormac coughing at the chill. Becoming an Auror McClaggen had smoothed out the brash arrogance of his youth. “Part of the Granger Foundation. Jumped up little muggle-born was right bloody cow about it, too.” Slightly smoothed out, then.

Harry had spent hours at the Ministry. His head hurt from the conflicting stories and speculation. He knew there had been an enormous explosion that had killed the entire Weasely Family. Some thought it was a new firework George was experimenting with, others said a Muggle device Arthur had brought home was to blame, a one whispered about neo-Death Eaters but was quickly pushed out of the room. The official Ministry line of concussive weather phenomenon was particularly unconvincing. 

Harry had demanded to see Hermione. She could make sense of this mess. He asked to see Madam Tonks and Teddy. He wanted to ensure they were well. He begged to see Fleur and Victoire when he found out they had were survivors. All of his requests, except to visit the Burrow, were denied. For now, the Ministry would keep his reappearance quiet. 

“The Granger Foundation?”

“Yes, Granger snatched up everything after the attack, ruffled everyone’s feathers. She already had the Potter and Black seats on the Wizengamot, then she got Weasley seat, too, made a big deal out of it. But then she went off the rails. Started talking to the _ Prophet, _casting the Ministry as the bad guys for supposedly ‘covering up the truth.’” He spat out the words like they were foul. “She saw Death Eaters everywhere. She wouldn’t let it go. Do you know she punched Inspector Umbridge in the mouth!The girl has no class. Got herself banned from the Ministry, and rightly so. After that, she pulled up stakes and left public life, saying she wanted time to heal. More like time to be crazy.”

Harry had heard a few versions of that story. Parts of it rang true. Hermione would never let something go. Harry grimaced at the thought that Umbridge had been allowed anywhere near the investigation. She had no love for the Weasleys. He wasn't sure how Umbridge still had a job, who had she imperiused? 

Harry pulled the ferret out of the pocket of his mac’ and dropped him on the damp ground to stretch his legs while he poked around the house by himself. He had tried three different times to get rid of the thing at the Ministry, but each time they brought the rodent back to him. Though he would admit it to no one, he was starting to like holding the ferret, he made the cutest noises during tummy rubs. Harry circled the Burrow, trying all the doors, but the house was sealed tight as a drum. Through the window, he saw the Weasley clock. It only had one hand, little Victoire was the only Weasley left. 

He found McClaggen dozing on a bench. Harry kicked his foot to wake him. 

“A-hem. Apologies, it took two portkeys to get back here from Australia. I’m knackered.” He pulled his mug out of his pocket and took a wincing sip. Harry tried not to laugh at the unmanly floral pattern. 

Harry felt a tingle in his brain; he was seldom a victim of coincidences. McClaggen’s travel and his new Australian ID card didn’t seem random. He could hear the Hermione-in-his-head telling him he was overreacting, and he shushed her. He kept his voice intentionally light, “Australia? That’s far.” He looked away, pretending to observe the ferret chasing after green gnomes near the remaining garden wall. 

“Bloody right it is. We’re chasing a hit witch, Jean White. She’s a nasty bit of business. Makes the Ministry look bad, going after Death Eaters on her own. Even the ones that were pardoned.”

“Really? She can’t be all that bad.” Harry found that taking the opposite position worked with show-offs who wanted to one-up him. 

“Harry, she dropped a house on Alecto Carrow and Thorfinn Rowle.” Harry snorted and wondered if anyone else thought about _ The Wizard of Oz _when they heard the story. Would Alecto be the Wicked Witch of the East or the West? He couldn’t remember which one had the house dropped on her. “You should’ve seen Rowle. They were still mopping up bits of him when I left Australia. She should be punished. She makes it personal and bloody.”

“Rowle was one of those that escaped Azkaban, you know after the War? Right?” The ferret had caught one of the slow gnomes and dispatched it with ruthless efficiency. 

“Yeah, right before you die- um- _went away_.

“You can say died, Cormac, it’s not like I haven’t done it before. Who's left of those that escaped? It was a big break out: Dolohov and the Lestrange brothers, Rookwood, Scabior, Selwyn?” The ferret pounced, caught another gnome, and tore it to pieces.

“Only Dolohov and Lestrange, the Elder, are left. The rest are dead. The younger Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, both Notts, Senior and Junior.” The ferret stopped and stood on his hind legs looking toward Cormac, his whiskers twitching.

“Draco’s dead? Junior Nott? Do you mean Theo?” The ferret bounded over and weaved through Harry’s legs. Harry bent to pick him up. The ferret chittered and stared at him, like it had something to say, something significant. Harry wished he spoke ferret. 

Cormac lowered his voice, “And from the looks of it, Draco and Theo were_ together,_ if you know what I mean, you know - _touching_ _ wands. _ They were working on some weird elemental magic. White got there before us, killed Lestrange the Younger, Draco, and Nott- Theo. She took whatever they were working on because we couldn’t find anything.” McClaggen took another sip from his mug. 

Harry considered a world without Draco - it wouldn’t be the worst thing - when he felt tiny, sharp teeth sink into his hand, “Ow, FERRET!” The bite was gushing blood.

“That looks like it hurts.”

Harry grabbed the bitey little blighter and stuffed him in his pocket. “Yes Cormac, a bleeding wound does tend to hurt. Take me back to Grimmauld Place; I’ll patch myself up there.” 

* * *

Harry was in the Drawing room on the settee. He was tossing the duck in the air, he couldn’t find his training snitch and he needed to do something with his hands. Good hand. He had healed the bite, but it was still sore. The Ferret had danced around him underfoot and in the way. With a well-placed sleeping charm, the ferret was now resting, curled up on his stomach and snoring softly. 

He put the duck down and adjusted his glasses. He had found this pair with Hermione's notes in her secret spot in the library. The Weasley’s papers were there too Authur’s journal, Molly’s recipe book, Ginny’s diary. The lenses of the glasses were broken, but a _reparo_ saw them well sorted. Between reading her notes, and what he had heard from McClaggen, and people at the Ministry, Harry's brains felt scrambled. He wasn’t sure who to believe; he hadn’t felt this alone since the Dursely’s. He was missing something, a big something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. If Hermione were here, she would say something helpful like 'What is the last thing you remember?’ _Hang on, that's not __a bad idea. _

Harry thought about it. He remembered the Dursely’s. Hogwarts. The Horcrux hunt. The Battle. Hermione and Ron rowing, and Ron moving back to the Burrow. Spending time with both his friends, but Hermione needed him more. Ginny's jealousy and her ultimatum, he didn't want to get engaged, but she insisted. It's not like Hermione would have been interested in him anyway. She was brilliant, and he was just Harry. They were friends, best friends, strictly platonic, brother and sister. _Nothing to see, here._ Then the breakout at Azkaban. Followed by the engagement party. 

But then it was a blank _nothing._ Like his memories were gone, or obliviated. 

Obliviation was a difficult bit of magic to master; all mind magic was. If only Dumbledore had bothered to explain that before throwing Harry at Snape for Occlumency lessons. Kingsley took the time to explain to Harry. The Minister had almost become an Oblivator instead of an Auror. He joked that would have made him a better politician, people would forget his mistakes. Kingsley said the most important thing was compartmentalizing your thoughts. Harry had joked with Hermione how she would be a good Oblivator. He only did it once. She had broken down crying and told him about what she had done to her parents. He felt awful. The worst part was that she couldn’t reverse the memory charms. She had been devastated when she returned from Australia without her mum and dad. 

_ “It was terrible, Harry. They believed their daughter Hermione died when she was 11.” _

_"They are still alive, Hermione. You kept them safe. It was a hard decision but the right one. You always make the hard decisions."_

_ “They were so sad. It never occurred to me how much my parents would miss me. I hoped that knowing they had a daughter would be enough when the time came to unwind the memory charm. But I can’t undo the charm. Something, maybe the sadness, is stopping it. They have to live with a dead child, and I have to live with people I love not knowing me. It hurts so much," she finished softly. _

_No words could give her comfort. Harry_ _ hugged Hermione until she stopped shaking, only then did he say, "I wish I could help."_

_“I wish you could too. But how? They need someone to love, even if it isn’t me. They deserve it.” _

Family was important to Hermione. But then, family was important to most people who weren’t the Durselys. Harry knew only a little about his family. His grandmother, Euphemia Dorea Potter née Black, was somewhere on the Black family tree tapestry. Curious, he shifted the snoring ferret to a cushion where it blinked awake and watched him as he traced his lineage on the Black Family Tree. He found his portrait and birthday, but no death date. He wondered why no one had thought to look at the tapestry to confirm his death. 

Farther away, he spotted Narcissa’s branch with Draco. Harry couldn’t believe he was related to him. He looked closer at the portrait, Draco couldn’t have changed that much. Draco looked like a rat, and there was no death date. Hadn’t Cormac said he was dead? Why was Draco’s picture of a rodent? Though the face was wrong for a rat, it looked more like the ferret that had been lying on his stomach. 

_ Oh Godric, is Draco the ferret? _

Harry burst out laughing and turned to look at the animal now standing on his hind legs, giving him a look that was either ‘_Yes, you dummy!’ _or _‘Do you have a biscuit?’ _Harry pulled out his wand, "_Mutata retrorsum," _the reversal spell Professor Lupin used on Peter Pettigrew. Nothing happened. The ferret scratched at its neck, looked at him, then scratched again. Translation charms, like the sonorous charm, were aimed at the neck. The problem was that Harry didn’t know any ferret translation spells or any translation spells, for that matter. 

An hour later, after combing the library, he had been bitten by two books, covered in ink and bits of paper when a third book exploded, and a fourth had tried to suck him into the pages and was only stopped by the ferret shutting it. All Harry had to show for his effort, was a beaver transfiguration spell and a book of Veela pick-up lines which were eye-opening, he didn't know there were so many uses for feathers. 

He hadn't confirmed that the ferret was, in fact, Draco. “Well, Ferret, I can’t find anything. Maybe you can do better.” The Ferret cocked its head from to the side and darted off. Harry heard a dull thud as something heavy hit the floor, followed by a swooshing as the ferret pushed the book toward him. It seemed that The-Ferret-Who-Might-Be-Draco understood English. When he got to Harry, he danced around his legs and chittered loudly, quite pleased with himself. 

It was Greek to Harry; literally. Finding a Greek translation spell was much easier than a ferret translation spell. As the words resolved into readable English, Harry discovered that the tome’s title was _ On Talking to Animals _by Aesop, which explained how he got his fables. 

Harry paged through the book and found something that would change speech. He aimed his wand at the animal and said, “_O ánthropos miláe_,” roughly translating to “speak human’ in Greek. 

“Biscuit, Scarhead.” The small, high pitched voice could be mistaken, but the nickname could not. Only one person called him that.

“Hi, Draco.” 

* * *

“A Zephyr? Draco, How on earth did you catch a Zephyr?” asked Harry. He was having a hard time to keep up with the fast-talking ferret jacked up on caffeine. Once Harry had gotten him a biscuit, the ferret asked for a cup of coffee. In the future, he would remember caffeine and ferrets do not mix. 

“Keep up Potter. Luna Lovegood owed Theo a favor. The trick was containing it, and nobody wants to break wind.” 

“Ha-Ha, you're too fuzzy for fart jokes.” Harry slumped in his chair; a Zephyr was big magic. Zephyrs were quasi-sentient beings made out of air. They drove the wind, or more correctly, they were the wind. If one could harness it, the resulting power was limitless. The kind of thing that could power very demanding rituals, such as necromancy, standing in for the breath of life. Bringing the dead back to life, now that was a scary thought. 

“And I, well Evans Black, took it from you, and it’s somewhere in my- his - flat?” It had been disturbing to learn he'd had a whole life, not as Harry Potter, but as an English immigrant to Australia named Evans Black. Even more disturbing was his -Evan's- association with Jean White, the Hit Witch, Cormac had described. 

Draco looked up, and coffee clung to his whiskers. “Yes, and there might be a bit of a problem. I’ve been working out the calculations. I think the containment might not be as sturdy as we thought. It's decaying at a rapid rate.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning in about forty-eight hours, it will blow up.” 

“Oh. Big explosion or little?”

“Big, very big. Enough to tear apart a city.”

Time to save the world again. “That would be bad. Let’s try to avoid that outcome. Back to Australia, find the Zephyr and dispose of it in a non-explosive way. All without letting anyone know I’m back.” 

“Yes,” Draco held up the small demitasse cup. “Can I get another coffee?” 

“Not on your furry little life.”

“Killjoy, you’re as bad as Granger.”

“Granger? You’ve seen Hermione? Where is she? Jean didn't hurt her, did she?”

Draco cocked his head. “Hermione's fine. Probably better than fine. You two had very loud sex last night. It was quite moving."

"What?"

"Hermione Granger is Jean White.”

“WHAT?”

* * *

Jean had been looking for Evan for hours. He had seemed off this morning. She wasn't sure, but she thought he swore to Godric about something, and he didn't know who Godric Gryffindor was. When she woke to the empty tent, she knew something terrible had happened. She had tried a footprint spell for both Evan and Draco, but there were too many people. She was almost late to meet her contact. 

She wasn’t sure why they had made a tent that looked like an Italian trattoria down to the fake ivy on the walls, but it was easy to find and large enough they wouldn’t stick out. He was a washed-out Quidditch player, reduced to running illegal betting for galleons. She had helped him out of a tight spot with some Bulgarians a few years ago, not a bad thing when a Slytherin owes you a favor. She slipped into the corner booth with a massive man who ignored her, giving his attention to the full plate of pasta in front of him. 

“Hello, Flint.”

“White.”

“I need to get a message to Lestrange.”

“Dunno where he is.” He stabbed a meatball and jammed it in his mouth. His manners were worse than Ron’s.

“Hogwash. I know for a fact that you still have ties to him,” She pointed to his left arm, the twisted mass of angry red flesh there ensured it. Lestrange had tried to rekey the Dark Mark to himself with disastrous results. It had turned the Dark Mark into an open wound on the remaining Death Eaters, making hunting them much easier. A poultice made with platypus venom kept the pain at bay, and she knew the only supplier. “All I need is for you to take him a message. Tell him, I have what he wants, what he tried to get from Draco. If he wants it, he can come and get it. Give him this.” She pulled out a hand and dropped it on the table. “It’s a portkey.”

“No, White, that’s a hand.” He poked it with his fork. 

“So it is. It was Dolhov’s. I thought Lestrange might like something to remember him by. It’ll activate tomorrow at noon and take him to the meeting spot.” 

“He’ll never go for this White. He doesn’t come out in the open.”

“For this, I think he just might. ” 

Jean stood and walked out of the restaurant. At the door, she doubled over and fell to her knees as her magic untwisted and loosed. It felt like she was being roasted then doused with ice water, simultaneously. A deluge of magic washed over her, enough to power a demanding enchantment. The only thing that she could think with that much power was the working that kept Hermione Granger and Jean White’s connection secret. Her secret had been safe for five years. It should have been impossible for any witch or wizard to break it. How could it be undone?

It wasn't a question of strength. There was something she had overlooked. She had tied it to humans. But what if the witch or wizard were not human, a werewolf, veela, or animagi?

_Oh._

Or a fucking ferret who would do anything for a biscuit.

She covered her face with her hands, hoping no one had seen. She looked down at her clothes; they were nondescript muggle jeans and a jumper, nothing that would point her out as anyone special. She dug in her bag for the invisibility cloak.

A little girl pointed at her and jumped up and down, “Look, Mummy, it’s Hermione Granger!” Witches and wizards were turning toward her, gawking. She ran around the corner of the nearest tent and dug out a cloak that looked like an inky night speckled with stars. She threw it over herself and crouched into a ball. She lay there quiet and unmoving as a small woman, dressed in green tweed robes with a toady face marched between the tents, “_Homenum revelio_.” She sniffed when nothing happened.

Jean peeked around the corner and watched her walk into the trattoria with a sinking feeling; there were no coincidences. She eased her way into the restaurant, sliding between people, invisibly. 

“...wanted me to give you this. She says she has what you want. What Draco was working on.” The woman nodded. She made a face while drinking from the teacup in front of her. 

“I see subtly remains elusive for her. Did you see her? Did she look familiar to you?” questioned Umbridge.

“No, she was just some nondescript brunette. Nothing to owl home.”

“She didn’t look like Hermione Granger, did she?’

Flint barked out a laugh, “People claim to have seen Hermione Granger all over the world, and it’s never her. She’s as well hidden as you. Don’t be daft. ”

“I haven’t lasted this long, Flint, by being daft.” She pointed her wand at him. 

Flint stiffened and looked down, “Apologies, Sir.”

Jean’s palms were sweaty, bluffing her way into a meeting with Lestrange had seemed like a good idea, but if Lestrange was posing as Chief Investigator Umbridge with the full weight of the Ministry behind her?

This twisted the plot a bit. 

* * *

Harry walked through his apartment, well, Evan’s apartment. It was nice, on the small side, but more than enough for one person. 

Draco was the one who found the note since it was tucked under a plate of biscuits. 

_ Evan Dear, _

_ We haven’t heard from you, and I was worried. I came over and watered your plants. You weren’t here. Please call. I left you a new recipe I tried, gluten-free shortbread, hope you like it. Don't forget the bumper when you come over tonight._

_ PS: You didn't have to bring me anything from Alice Springs, but I love the bracelet. _

Draco was happily munching on his biscuit, while Harry went into the bedroom, the collar and bead weren’t on the dresser. “I wonder if she thought it was her birthday present? He pulled out his phone to dial Aunt Moony. 

There was a crack, and Hermione Granger was standing in the room. Harry dropped the phone. Only this wasn't Hermione Granger. Shorter hair, sadder eyes, and her body covered in more scars than a battleground. But she wasn't Jean White either. “Evan?”

He shook his head, “No, Harry.” She stood there for a moment, and he watched her think through at least fourteen thoughts and open and shut her mouth eight times. He didn’t need to think; he ran to her, and she limped towards him. Her hug was fierce and tight like she wasn’t going to let him go. 

He mumbled into her hair, “How could you do that to me, Hermione?”

She shook her head against his chest, “I’m not sorry, Harry. They told me that you exhausted all your magic, and you would never recover - a squib. You know how squibs are treated. After seeing my parents and knowing that they missed me, I thought this was a chance for all of you to be happy, even if it was without me." She took a deep breath gathering her courage, "I wanted someone to love you, just for you. Not because you were Harry Potter, _The Chosen One, _but because you are a good person and you deserve it. I knew that my parents would love you, the same way I love you and have loved you.” 

“Hermione, I-”

“No, stop. I have shite timing. Of course, I realize I love you just as you get engaged. Even though it shredded my heart to do it. I let you go, the first time. But then I had to let you go a second time to keep you safe because if those bastards got you once they could do it again and this time you wouldn't have magic to protect you. I've been killing them off one-by-one. Making the world safer one murder at a time.” Her eyes glittered with hatred. 

Harry looked at this version of Hermione Granger. She was different, raw and wild - feral. She had walked a hard path alone, and suffered the consequences. Her body was covered in scars and she was hard. Would he have done the same with the same results? He hugged her close, “I guess I should thank you, Hermione. I'm still mad, but I understand why you did it." It was comforting holding her, but it had always been that way. If he had a home, it was in Hermione's arms. "I wish I could have Evan’s memories too. Can you imagine for five years I lived a normal life with no dark lords, Ministry of Magic, or fantastic beasts out to get me?"

She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. "There was a lot of yoga."

"What?"

"Mum took you to yoga classes." Her cheeks pinked, and her words tumbled out in a torrent. "I watched you, them, everyone to make sure you were getting on. It wasn't an accident the day we met on the plane."

"Creepy. Hang on, we, Jean and Evan, met on a plane?" 

"Yes, in Alice Springs to Melbourne. You had just broken up with your girlfriend, Winnie. But it didn't matter, because the plane crashed."

"Girlfriend? Plane crash? I thought Draco was making that up. I can only follow about half of what he tells me."

“Half, I was lucky to get a quarter. If you give him coffee it's like a record speeded up. I don't know if you can recover your Evan memories, Harry. Harry and Evan were two different people who just happened to reside in the same body.”

Harry blew out the breath he had been holding, “Fine then I’ll settle for knowing how we ended up naked in the same bed.”

“You remember that?” Her eyes were as big as saucers.

“This morning, yes, last night, no. And for the record, having a ferret critique your technique is weird. The furry little perv watched us.”

Hermione’s cheeks blushed red. “Eww. And I imagine it happened in the usual way,” she demurred, coyly. 

“What, you tripped, accidentally ripping your clothes off, then fell on my cock several dozen times?”

“Haaa-rry.”

If Harry concentrated, he could still see Ginny in his mind. But since waking up next to her this morning, Harry had been thinking about how Jean had touched Evan. Hermione was right; she had shite timing, but so did he. It had never worked out for them when they were younger; there were always monsters to slay, a war to fight, a Dark Lord to vanquish. Then Ginny. Hermione was a friend and compatriot, his best friend. She said she loved him. So many things had shifted today. Why not this? 

He held out his hand, and she took it. “This is - five plus eight - thirteen years too late, but let's chalk it up to shite timing. Hermione, how would you feel about being my girlfriend?” 

* * *

Hermione fidgeted next to him, running her wand over her hair again to smooth the flyaway curls, “Do I look alright?”

“Yes, you look fine.” He shifted the unwieldy bumper to his other side.

“Do you think they will like me?”

“Hermione, they are going to love you. They are your parents, you know them. I’m the one flying blind. Not only am I their fake nephew, but I also don't know anything about him.”

“Just remember, their names are Uncle Wendy and Aunt Moony.”

The door opened, Wendell and Monica Wilkens - Hermione’s mum and dad - stood there. Harry froze. It was one thing to know that Hermione had obliviated her parents and hidden his memories so he could play happy family with them. But it was another thing to have the two older people throw themselves at him, smothering him in a hug sandwich. 

“Evan, where have you been? We were so worried,” asked Aunt Moony. 

“I was calling the police if you didn’t call or come over today.“ said Uncle Wendy. “And who is this _lovely_ young lady?”

Harry cleared his throat, “Uncle _ Wendy, _ Aunt _ Moony, _this is Hermione Granger. She is the reason I’ve been unreachable. We met on the plane back from Alice Springs. We’ve been -_um- _busy since.” 

Aunt Moony paled and smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Hermione? That’s an unusual name.” In the hallway beyond, Harry could see pictures of the family; most were of Wendell and Monica, he noticed a few showed them with a young Hermione. 

“My parents met at a production of _Winter’s Tale, _ that’s how I got my name. I am so pleased to meet you, Evan has such lovely things to say about both of you._” _

Uncle Moony chimed in, “We met at the _ Winter’s Tale,_ too. What are the chances?”

Aunt Moony had linked her arm through Hermione’s. She had already decided this was meant to be, Hermione was an upgrade from that harpy Winnie. As they made their way to the sitting room, Uncle Wendy winked at Harry, Evan. “Well done, I can see why you _got lost _for a few days.”

Harry hoped this sounded like Evan, “It means the world that you like her.” He left them in the lounge listing Evan’s accomplishments as they pulled out the photo albums. He excused himself to the toilet and let Draco out of the disillusioned carrier. He ferreted off to replace the Zephyr bead with a replica. They met at the top of the stairs. The bead and collar in Draco's jaws, Harry slipped him in the disillusioned carrier. 

“That wind is kicking up out there, isn’t it?” Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance as the wind whipped the trees back and forth. They needed to release the Zephyr soon. 

Dinner was not good, but the conversation was terrific. Uncle Wendy teased Aunt Moony about her memory, “She never remembers buying lottery tickets, but she’s won twice now. We were lucky already because we had Evan.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Hermione.


	5. Sugar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [ArielSakura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArielSakura/pseuds/ArielSakura/works?fandom_id=136512) Her suggestion to use Uluru or Ayer's Rock was, well, magic.

The thing most people don’t realize about Australia is it’s big. Huge. Enormous. However, it is one of the most urbanized countries in the world. The oft-cited statistic is that 85% of the population lives within 50 kilometers of the coast. The Red Centre is sparsely populated. That is good news for witches and wizards, meaning that many magical places on the continent have hardly any Muggles. Uluru or Ayer’s Rock in Northern Australia is a good example. 

There are many origin myths of Uluru - boys playing in the mud, serpents fighting, high chiefs dying. There is some truth to all of them; it was the scene of a great battle between a water witch and an earth wizard of two different tribes. They warred over the land for days, shifting forms, neither able to best the other. Realizing it was a stalemate, the water witch soaked the earth, then slammed her fist into the mud and commanded it to surround the eath wizard. Trapped within the walls, she flooded the space, turning the earth wizard to mud. The hot sun baked the wizard into the rock, trapping him there for eternity. Though his form changed, he is still powerful, and he hates the rain. Alice Springs, the closest town to Uluru gets only 280 mm each year. 

The ley lines around Ayer’s Rock, Uluru are female to balance the male energy of the trapped wizard. It is a controversial construct of assigning gender to the lines. Though it is known that certain lines channel healing or nurturing magic, as opposed to the chaotic or nature magic of the other lines. The line from Uluru is quite powerful and continues under the Indian Ocean and up to Kathmandu at the top of the world where there is a unique confluence of three female ley lines, not far from the source of the Ganges River. Some wizards believe the river's reputation for miraculous healing results from this ley line's proximity. 

Hermione was hoping the female ley lines around Uluru would help a witch out and give her power a boost. She walked toward the Rock. The air shimmered as Dolohov canceled his disillusionment charm. ‘Suka, Thank you for my hand.”

“Dolohov, you lived. How disappointing. Where is Lestrange?”

“Where is Zephyr?”

“No Lestrange, no Zephyr.”

Director Inspector Not-Umbridge ended her disillusionment charm and stepped forward. “Fine, I’m here.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “You could be anyone underneath the polyjuice. Drink this. It’ll end the potion.” She threw a vial at Lestrange, and it fell to the ground and shattered. 

Umbridge’s high pitched giggle split her ears, “And have you poison me, no thanks.” Not-Umbridge must have anticipated this as her face began to shift into his. When he was Lestrange, he rasped, “Now, hand it over. Or do you want to fight?”

“I think we'll fight.” She made a show of removing the bead from a collar then put it in a box, and dropping it in her bag.

Hermione put her wand in the air. Harry, who had been waiting for a signal, dived and shot a feather-light charm at her. He grabbed her arm as he went past and plopped her in front of him on his Firebolt. She faced him. "Hi." She gave him a peck on the cheek.

“You’re on offense - fire hexes and curses - and I’m on defense, flying the broom. Let's finish off your Murder List.”

"Kill List."

"Whatever." 

As they flew away, six wizards - the last of the neo-Death Eaters - and Lestrange gave chase. There was almost no cover. It was all down to speed and skill. Jets of color filled the air around them as the wizards shot spells toward them. “Hang on,” Harry called. He flew into a series of barrel rolls as the curses flew fast and furious, but wide and missed them. 

She fought like a fury, taking out the Death Eaters, walloping them with curses. When only Dolohov and Lestrange were left, Hermione got Dolohov with a _sectumsempra_. He tumbled from his broom and hit the ground with a wet _thwack, _his seeping blood red as the soil. This left only Lestrange, he disappeared. 

Hermione looked up at the sun; there was a speck that was growing by the moment. Then she realized the speck was Lestrange and he was headed straight for them. He was raining down spells, but Hermione was facing the wrong way, and Harry couldn't fly backward. Harry tried to evade, but the extra passenger meant the Firebolt was unbalanced. They fell to the ground. Hermione dragged herself to her knees. 

Lestrange landed and walked toward Harry, who was groaning. Ropes and pegs shot out of his wand, binding him to the ground. He aimed his wand and Hermione felt an invisible hand, pressing her into the ground, crushing her. 

“Give me the Zephyr.” He twisted a hand around her neck. “It's mine now. I'm going to bring them back. All of them. Thank you for making this possible.” 

Hermione dug into her bag and rummaged around. She found the box and opened it, pulling out the pretty silver bead. “If you want it, you can have it. She released the catch containing the Zephyr and threw it toward the ground. 

There was a mournful howl as the Zephyr emerged from its tiny prison. After months spent pent up, it unraveled in blasts and gusts that buffeted them to and fro. Lestrange was in the middle of the storm; it pounded him, lifting him into the air. The wind grabbed his top and his bottom and twisted, and he came apart in two pieces. 

The wind swirled out faster and faster. Hermione ran toward Harry, shouting as she went, the ropes turned to licorice, and he pulled himself free. He stood ready to grab his Firebolt and get them out of there only to stand rooted to the spot as the widening tempest changed course and dragged Hermione into the whirlwind. 

* * *

A wand was on the table. 

It was long, twelve and three-quarter inches, and made from dark, kinky walnut. It was a captured wand, sullenly loyal. It had only responded when the owner yielded to her need for vengeance, and then it was happy to comply with her wishes.

The pale wood of the table underneath made the wand stand out. It had scrapes and gouges one would expect for a table well-used and washed down often — a good table for a hospital. The small window filled the room with light from the sunny day outside, making the tidy, bland sickroom glow golden. A woman was resting in a dull, grey metal bed made up with white sheets in the center of the room. A tall man with blond hair shifted in the chair next to the bed. His leg bounced up and down as the hour ticked down. His shift was almost over, his coffee mug long since emptied. He watched the woman in bed with brown hair that curled almost audibly, freckled tan skin, and lips parted as regular breaths passed through them. Her face was cut and scraped like she had faced down a windstorm. One of her arms, while whole, was shattered like a mirror. The other arm and torso covered in bruises or scars, some in bright colors, testaments to her skill and tenacity. The door opened, and Minister Shacklebolt walked in with Inspector Umbridge.

“Has there been any change, _McClaggen_?” asked the Minister. 

“Not yet, Sir. The Healers said she would wake soon. She’s not safe for apperating or portykeying to Azkaban, yet.” McClaggen stood and began to move towards the door. 

The Minister moved to block him, a smile twisted across his face, “She’s not going to Azkaban.”

Umbridge walked over to the wand on the table and picked it up. She snapped it in two, “She won’t be needing that anymore.” 

McClaggen was confused by the action, “Sir?”

“_McClaggen_, did anyone else know Hermione Granger was Jean White beside you?”

Confused, McClaggen shook his head, “No, I have press release, ready though-”

Umbridge drew her wand from her sleeve. “How very thoughtful of you, _McClaggen_; however, I do think you are out of time. The funny thing about polyjuice, _McClaggen_, is that you need a fresh source of hair. We know that Lestrange was impersonating Umbridge. We found McClaggen, the _real _ McClaggen, in Dolores Umbridge’s flat. If you aren’t Lestrange and you aren’t _ really _ McClaggen, that must mean you are - _Dolores_.”

Not-McClaggen had his wand out, but not as fast as Not-Umbridge, who disarmed him with a swift _expelliarmus_.

Kingsley smiled, “For crimes against the Ministry, including the use of the Unforgivable Curses. I sentence you to Azkaban for life. You shouldn’t have Imperiused me, Dolores.”

Not-McClaggen's face began to bubble and transform as the potion wore off. The tall handsome _he_ shrank into a small and unattractive _she _that bore an alarming likeness to a toad. “You’ll never get away with this. I'll tell everyone about Granger. She’s a feral dog that should be put down.” she spat.

Not-Umbridge looked at the Minister, “I told you a _secure location_ wasn’t enough.” 

The Minister pulled his wand from his sleeve; he had been an Oblivator for five years before he returned to regular Auroring. “I guess I owe you five galleons, Harry, _ Obliviate_.”

McClaggen’s exclusive interview with the _ Prophet _was light on detail but filled with photos of the young, handsome Auror. The editor had opted for a small picture of Jean White AKA Dolores Umbridge, she wouldn't sell any papers. He was disappointed the interviewer pulled only one quote from McClaggen about his role in the capture. He did like the humble tone it struck, "It was all a bit of a blur,” made a good headline. 

* * *

Hermione woke up to the gentle rocking, and someone was talking. “... fragile to apparate or portkey, so I thought, why not. I found Arthur’s notes about enchanting his Anglia. Let's not tell Uncle Wendy I made his Ford Falcon fly...” She drifted back to sleep. Something warm and soft rubbed itself against her hand and made soft dooks and coos.

The next time she woke, it was dark. There were stars in the sky. “.... you do like color-coding, so I found the rune you used to hide my identity - Pertho - for secrets. I thought, why not use another rune to get back my memories, Ansuz, or truth worked for me. It's weird being in someone else's memories. Maybe, we could try it on your parents…"

Sometime later she woke with the sun on her face. She was sitting in an old car, her head resting against the car window. Her wand, ten and three-quarter inch vinewood, was on the seat next to her. She grabbed it, and it was like hugging an old friend. _Where did you come from? _She had hated Bellatrix's wand, but it had loved killing, it was the wand she needed at the time. She reached for the door handle and opened it up, burying her feet in the sand. _ Paradise_. She could see Draco and Harry on the beach playing with each other in front of the villa. She looked down at her herself and saw she was in a bikini. _ How had that happened? _

Draco sat up on his hunches then bounded towards her. He was chittering, then she realized it was just very high-pitched and fast-talking, “You’re-awake-you’re-awake-you’re-awake-bicci-time-bicci-time.” Harry, shirtless and in blue board shorts, walked up behind him. 

“Good Morning, Sleepyhead, I told Draco no biscuits until you woke up.”

Hermione blinked, “Harry? How? Why? Um - what?”

His smile was lopsided. “Listen, Granger, all you need to know is with me, your chances are up here,” he held his hand above his head, “Without me, they are down here,” he dropped it down to his knees. "With me." Hand high. "Without me." Hand low. “Are you with me?” 

She couldn’t stop the smile. “Yes, Harry, I’m with you.” 

* * *

“Monica, dear, there is just no way your biscuits won a prize.”

“Wendell, I got a letter that said my recipe was the best sugar-free, gluten-free shortbread the judges tasted. I never knew ferret food was a thing. They requested I make a big batch to bring. I’m just so flattered. It’s funny. I don’t remember entering. Perhaps Evan put my name in? ” 

Wendell Wilkins loved his wife, but she was forgetful; sometimes she didn’t even answer to her name. Even though Evan loved her, he wouldn’t have entered her biscuits anywhere. “Alright dear, we need to wait for Evan. He said he was coming to pick us up.”

“Oh good, I hope he brings that nice girl Hermione around again. I like her. I think they are a good fit; opposites can be a good thing, black and white go together. 

Wendell smiled, "Of course, dear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jerk Author: So see I told you happy ending. _Ish._
> 
> The Mollified but still Skeptical Reader: I agree with the _Ish._ I think that Harry needs to get back Evans' memories and the same for Hermione's parents. And what about poor Draco Ferret?
> 
> The Jerk Author: Ambiguity allows the reader to imagine what happens next. Good stories do that. 
> 
> The Mollified by still Skeptical Reader: (snorts) Or lazy writers.


End file.
